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LUCILE 

A DRAMA 



By 
JAMBS T. ROBERTS 



Being a Dramatization of the Lucile of the 
Earl of Lytton 



Copyrighted 1903 

JAMES T. ROBERTS 

All Rights Reserved 







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J^^S"' 1 


Two Cepi\» Rscaived j 


" JAN 


5 1903 


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C XXc. No. 


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COPY B.. J 






LUC I LE 

A DRAMA 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^ 



Lord Alfred Vargrave. 
Eugene, Duke De Luvois. 
John Somerset, Cousin of Lord Vargrave. 
John Vargrave, Son of Alfred and Matilda. 
LuciLE, Countess De Nevers. 
Matilda, Wife of Lord Vargrave. 
Marie, Countess of Perche, Attnt of Liicile. 
An Aide to the Duke De Luvois. 
''Jk 'jkun ''ServltM--. \ 
'A 'Maid Servant. 
\An\0hy7-7y. '•: : 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. — A smoking room of an inn in the Pyrmices 
Mountains, Bigorre, France. Time — A morning in 
September, 182^. Lord Alfred Vargrave seated at a 
table reading London Times. Enters a servant bring- 
ing a letter. 

Lord Vargrave {opening letter, reads). "I learn 
from Bigorre you are there. I am told you are going 
to marry a Miss Darcy. Of old, so long since you 
may have forgotten it now (when we parted as friends, 
soon mere strangers to grow). Your last words recorded 
a pledge what you will, a promise — the time is now come 
to fulfil. The letters I ask you, my lord, to return, I 
desire to receive from your hand. You discern my 
reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain. The 
distance to Luchon is short. I remain a month in these 
mountains. Miss Darcy, perchance, will forego one brief 
page from the summer romance of her courtship, and 
spare you one day from your place at her feet, in the 
light of her fair English face. I desire nothing more, 
and trust you will feel I desire nothing much. 
"Your friend always, 

"LuciLE." 

Alfred {pacing room zuith letter in his hand). 
Confound it. 

Enters fohn Somerset. 

John. A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool! 

Alfred. Who? 

John. The man who has anything better to do; and 
yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades his position as 
man, to this worst of all trades, which even a well-brought- 
up ape were above, to travel about with a woman in 
love, — unless she's in love with himself. 



_ 4 — 

Alfred. Indeed! why are you here then, dear 
Jack? 

John. Can't you guess it? 

Alfred. Not 1. 

John. Because I have nothing that's better to do. 
I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you, on the 
whole (I must own), than be bored by myself. That 
perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf — your Will-o'- 
the-wisp — that has led you and me such a dance through 
these hills — 

Alfred. Who, Matilda? 

John. Yes! she of course! who but she could 
contrive so to keep one's eyes, and one's feet, too, from 
falling asleep for even one-half hour of the long twent}^- 
four? 

Alfred. What's the matter? 

John. Why, she is — a matter, the more I consider 
about it, the more it demands an attention it does not 
deserve; and expands beyond the dimensions which ev'n 
crinoline, when possess'd by a fair face, and saucy eigh- 
teen, is entitled to take in this very small star, alread}- too 
crowded, as I think, by far. You read Malthus and 
Sadler? 

Alfred. Of course. 

John. To what use, when you countenance, calml}^ 
such monstrous abuse of one mere human creature's 
legitimate space in this world? Mars, Apollo, Virorum ! 
the case wholly passes my patience. 

Alfred. My own is worse tried. 

John. Yours, Alfred? 

Alfred. Read this, if you doubt, and decide. 

John {reading the letter). "I hear from Bigorre 
you are there. I am told you are going to marry Miss 
Darcy. Of old " What is this? 

Alfred. Read it on to the end, and you'll know. 



John (^continues reading'). "When we parted, your 
last words recorded avow what you will — " Hang it! this 
smells all over, I swear, of adventures and violets. Was 
it your hair you promised a lock of? 

Ai>FRED. Read on. You'll discern. 

John {continues reading). "Those letters I ask 
you, my lord, to return." Humph! Letters! the 
matter is worse than I guessed ; I have my misgivings — 

Alfred. Well, read out the rest, and advise. 

John. Eh? Where was I? 

( Co n t in u es reading ) . 

"Miss Darcy, perchance will forego one brief page 
from the summer romance of her courtship," — Egad! 
a romance, for my part I'd forego every page of, and 
not break my heart. 

Alfred. Continue! 

John {reading). "And spare you one day from 
3^our place at her feet" — Pray forgive me the passing 
grimace. I wish you had my place! 

( Coniinues reading) . 

"I trust you will feel I desire nothing much. Your 
friend" — Bless me! "Lucile?" The Comtesse de Nevers? 

Alfred. Yes. 

John. What will you do? 

Alfred. You ask me just what I would rather ask 
you. 

John. You can't go. 

Alfred. I must. 

John. But think of Matilda. 

Alfred. You must arrange that. 

John. What excuse will you make to Matilda — to 
her mother. 

Alfred. Oh, tell Mrs. Darcy that — lend me your 
wits, Jack! Can you not stretch your genius to fit a 
friend's use? 



— 6 — 

John. My dear boy, Matilda is jealous, you know, 
as Othello. 

Alfred. You joke. 

John I am serious. Why go to Luchon? 

Alfred. Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my 
dear John. Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire, 
before I extinguish forever the fire of youth and romance, 
to move from the dead past the gravestone of the years 
long departed forever, to take one last look, one final fare- 
well; to awake the heroic of youth from the hades of 
joy, and once more be, though but for an hour. Jack 
— a boy! 

John. You had better go hang yourself. 

Alfred. No! w'ere it but to make sure that the 
past from the future is shut, it were worth the step back. 
Do you think we should live with the living so lightly, and 
learn to survive that wild moment in which to the grave 
and its gloom we consign'd our heart's best, if the doors 
of the tomb were not lock'd with a key which fate keeps 
for our sake ? If the dead could return or the corpses 
awake ? 

John. Nonsense ! 

Alfred. Not wholl}'. The man who gets up a 
fill'd guest from the banquet, and drains off his cup, sees 
the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness, goes well 
contented to bed, and enjoys its repose. But he who 
hath supp'd at the tables of kings, and yet starved in the 
sight of luxurious things; who hath watch'd the wine 
flow, by himself but half tasted; heard the music, and yet 
miss'd the tune; who hath wasted one part of life's grand 
possibihties; that man will bear with him, be sure, to the 
end, a blighted experience, a rancor within. 

John. I see you remember the cynical story of a 
hoary Lothario, whom dying, the priest (knowing well 
the unprincipled life he had led, and observing with no 
small amount of surprise, a calm resignation in the old 



sinner's eyes), ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on 
his mind; "well, — no," — says Lothario, " I think not. I 
find, on reviewing my life, which in most things was 
pleasant, I never neglected an occasion of pleasing 
myself. On the whole, I have naught to regret;" — and 
so, smiling, his soul took its flight from this world. 

Alfred. Well, regret or remorse, which is best? 

John. Why, regret. 

Alfred. No; remorse. Jack, of course; for the one 
is related to the other. Regret is a spiteful old maid; but 
her brother, remorse, though a widower certainly, yet has 
been wed to young pleasure. Dear Jack, hang regret! 

John. You mean, then, to go? 

Alfred. I do. 

John. One word — stay! Are you really in love 
with Matilda? 

Alfred. Love, eh? What a question! Of course. 

John. Were 3^ou really in love with Lucile de Nevers? 

Alfred. What; Lucile? No, by Jove, never really. 

John. She's pretty? 

Alfred. Decidedly so. At least, so she was, some 
ten years ago. As soft, and as sallow as autumn — with 
hair neither black, nor 3'et brown, but that tinge which 
the air takes at eve in September, when night lingers 
lone through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting 
sun. Eyes — the wistful gazelle's ; the fine foot of a fairy ; 
and a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, a voice soft and 
sweet as a tune that one knows. Something in her, there 
was, set you thinking of those strange backgrounds of 
Raphael — that hectic and deep brief twilight in which 
tropic suns fall asleep. 

John. Coquette? 

Alfred. Not at all. 'Twas her one fault. Not she! 
I had loved her the better, had she less loved me. The 
heart of a man's like that delicate weed which requires to 



— 8 — 

be trampled on, boldly indeed, ere it give forth the 
fragrance you wish to extract. 

John. Women change so. 

Alfred. Of course. 

John. And unless rumor errs, I believe that last 
3'ear, at Baden, the Comtesse de Nevers was the rage — 
held an absolute court of devoted adorers, and really 
made sport of her subjects. 

Alfred. Indeed! 

John. When she broke off with you her engagement, 
her heart did not break with it? 

Alfred. Pooh! Pray would you have had her 
dress always in black, and shut herself up in a convent, 
dear Jack? Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was 
broken. 

John. Most likely. How was it? 

Alfred. The tale is soon spoken. She bored 
me. I show'd it. She saw it. She reproach'd. I 
retorted. Of course she was vex'd, I was vex'd that 
she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. If I ask'd her to 
sing, she look'd ready to cry. I was contrite, sub- 
missive. She soften'd. I harden'd. At noon I was 
banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd. She said I had no 
heart. I said she had no reason. I swore she talk'd 
nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason. In short, my 
dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see, things should come to 
a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she by whom, to that crisis, 
the matter was brought. She released me. I linger'd. 
I linger'd, she thought, with too sullen an aspect. This 
gave me, of course, the occasion to fly in a rage, mount 
my horse, and declare myself uncomprehended. And so 
we parted. The rest of the stoiy you know. 

John. No, indeed. 

Alfred. Well, we parted. Of course we could 
not continue to meet, as before, in one spot. You con- 
ceive it was awkward? I think that I acted exceedingly 



— 9 — 

well, considering the time of this rupture, for Paris was 
charming just then. It deranged all my plans for the 
winter. I ask'd to be chang'd — wroted for Naples, then 
vacant — obtain'd it — and so join'd my new post at once; 
but scarce reach'd it, when my first news from Paris 
informs me Lucile is ill, and in danger. Conceive what 
I feel. I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet looking 
pale. I am seized with a contrite regret; I ask to renew 
the engagement. 

John. And she? 

Alfred. Reflects, but declines. We part swear- 
ing to be friends ever, friends only. All that sort of 
thing! We each keep our letters — a portrait — a ring — 
with a pledge to return them whenever the one or the 
other shall call for them back. 

John. Pray go on. 

Alfred. My story is finish 'd. Of course I enjoined 
on Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin to 
supply the grim deficit found in our days, when love 
leaves them bankrupt. I preached. She obeys, 
she goes out in the world ; takes to dancing — a 
pleasure she rarely indulged in before. I go back to my 
post, and collect (I must own 'tis a taste I had never 
before, my dear John) antiques and small Elzevirs. 
Heigho! now. Jack, you know all. 

John {after a pause). You are really resolved to go 
back? 

Alfred. Eh, where? 

John. To that worst of all places — the past. You 
remember Lot's wife? 

Alfred. 'Twas a promise when last we parted. 
My honor is pledged to it. 

John. Well, what is it you wish me to do? 

Alfred. You must tell Matilda, I meant to have 
call'd — to leave word — to explain — but the time was so 
pressing — 



— 10 — 

John. My lord, j^our lordship's obedient! I really 
can't do — 

Alfred. You wish then to break off my marriage. 

John. No, no! But indeed I can't see why your- 
self you need take these letters. 

Alfred. Not see! would you have me, then, break 
a promise my honor is pledged to? 

John {hiuiunivg). "Off, off and away! said the 
stranger — " 

Alfred. Oh, good! oh, 3'ou scoff! 

John. At what, m}^ dear Alfred? 

Alfred. At all things! 

John. Indeed? 

Alfred. Yes; I see that your heart is as dry as a 
reed. That the dew of 3'our youth is rubb'd off you; I 
see you have no feeling left in you even for me ! At 
honor you jest; you are cold as a stone to the 
warm voice of friendship. Belief you have none. 
You have lost faith in all things. You carry a 
blight about with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight of 
such callous indifference, who could be calm? 1 must 
leave you at once, Jack, or else the last balm that is left me 
in Gilead you'll turn into gall. Heartless, cold, uncon- 
cerned — 

John. Have you done? Is that all? Well, then, 
listen to me! I presume when you made up your mind 
to propose to Miss Darcy, you weigh' d all the drawbacks 
against the equivalent gains, ere you finally settled the 
point. What remains but to stick to 3'our choice? You 
want money; 'tis here. A settled position; 'tis 3'ours. A 
career: 3^ou secure it. A wife, young and pretty as rich, 
whom all men will envy you. Wh3'- must you itch to be 
running away, on the eve of all this, to a woman whom 
never for once did you miss all these 3'ears since 3'ou left 
her? Who knows what ma3' happen, this letter — to me 
— is a palpable trap. The woman has changed since 3^ou 



— 11 



knew her. Perchance she yet seeks to renew her youth s 
broken romance. When women begin to feel youth and 
their beauty sHp from them, they count it a sort of a duty to 
let nothing else shp away. Lucile's a coquette to the end 
of her fingers, I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the 
wish lingers to recall the once reckless, indifferent, lover 
to the feet he has left: let intrigue now recover what truth 
could not keep. 'Twere a vengeance, no doubt-a tnumph 
-but why must you bring it about? You are risking the 
substance of all that you schemed to obtain; and for 
what? some mad dream you have dream'd. 

Alfred. But there's nothing to risk. . You exag- 
gerate, Jack; you mistake. In three days, at the most, 

I am back. , 

John Ay, but how ?— discontended, unsettled, 
upset, bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret; 
preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough to make your 
betrothed break off all in a huff. Three days do you 
say^ But in three days who knows what may happen? 
I don't, nor do you, I suppose. Have you answered this? 
Alfred. No, but I was about to do so as you 

entered. 

ToHN. Then don't. 

Alfred. I must, Jack, I gave her my promise. 
My honor is pledged to it. 

John. Well then, Alfred, I must go, but remember 
your promise to me, in three days. VExit John. 

Alfred {zvriting, then reads): 

"Bigorre, Tuesday. 

-Your note reach'd me to-day, at Bigorre, and com- 
mands my obedience. Before the night I shall be at 
Luchon-where a hue, if sent to Duval's, the hotel where 
I dine, will find me awaiting yours orders. Receive my 
respects. Yours sincerely 

^ "A. Vargrave. 

Seals letter and rings for servant. Enter servant. 



— 12 — 

Alfred. Post this at once {handing servant the 
let lev). 

Servant. Yes my lord {taking lette)-). 

Alfred. At what time does the next coach leave 
for Luchon? 

Servant. In one hour, milord, 

Alfred. Arrange, then, for my going. Does anyone 
else go? 

Servant. The Duke de Luvois, who has just 
arrived from Paris, milord. \_E\it servant. 

Enters Duke de Luvois. 

Duke. Pardon, but do I intrude? 

Alfred. Not in the least, sir. Do you go to 
Luchon? 

Duke. Yes; and you? 

Alfred. Charmed, sir, to find I shall have such 
agreeable company. We shall have a wait of nearly 
an hour. Pardon, but are you a smoker? Allow me, 
will you take a cigar? 

Duke. Many thanks. Such cigars are a luxury 
here. 

Alfred. Indeed, I find the dream of your nation 
in this weed. It makes all men brothers that use it. 

Duke. Will you remain long at Luchon? 

Alfred. Only a day or two. 

Duke. The season is done. 

Alfred. Already? 

Duke. 'Twas shorter this year than last. Folly 
soon wears her shoes out. She dances so fast, we are all 
of us tired. 

Alfred. You know the place well? 

Duke. I have been there two seasons. 

Alfred. Pray who is the belle of the baths at this 
moment? 



— 13 — 

Duke. The same who has been the belle of all 
places in which she is seen; the belle of all Paris last 
winter; last spring the belle of all Baden. 
Alfred. An uncommon thiiig ! 

Duke. Sir, an uncommon beauty! — I rather should 
say, an uncommon character. Truly, each day one 
meets women whose beauty is equal to hers, but none 
with the charm of Lucile de Nevers. 
Alfred. Comtesse de Nevers! 
Duke. Do you know her? 

Alfred. I know, or, rather, I knew her — a long 
time ago. I almost forget. 

Duke. What a wit! what a grace in her language! 
her movements! what play in her face! And yet what a 
sadness she seems to conceal! 

Alfred. You speak like a lover. 
Duke. I speak as I feel, but not like a lover. What 
interests me so in Lucile, at the' same time forbids me, I 
know, to give to that interest, whate'er the sensation, the 
name we men give to an hour's admiration, a night's 
passing passion, an actress's eyes, a dancing girl's ankles, 
a fine lady's sighs. 

Alfred. Yes, I quite comprehend. But this sadness 
— this shade which you speak of? — it almost would make 
me afraid your gay countrymen, sir, less adroit must have 
grown, since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I own I found 
in them terrible rivals, — if yet they have all lack'd the 
skill to console this regret (if regret be the word I should 
use), or fulfill this desire (if desire be the word), which 
seems 'still to endure unappeased.^ For I take it for 
granted, from all that you say, that the will was not 
wanted. 

Duke. I have heard that an Englishman— one of 
your nation, I presume — and if so, I must beg you, 
indeed, to exxuse the contempt which I — 



— 14 — 

Alford. Pra}^ sir, proceed with your tale. My 
compatriot, what was his crime? 

Duke. Oh, nothing! His folly was not so sublime 
as to merit that term. If I blamed him just now, it was 
not for the sin, but the silliness. 

Alfred. How. 

Duke. I own I hate botany. Still — I admit, although 
I myself have no passion for it, and do not understand, 
yet I can not despise the cold man of science, who walks 
with his eyes all alert through a garden of flowers, and 
strips the lilies' gold tongues, and the roses' red lips, with 
a ruthless dissection; since he, I suppose, has some 
purpose beyond the mere mischief he does. But the stupid 
and mischievous boy, that uproots the exotics, and 
tramples the tender young shoots, for a boy's brutal 
pastime, and only because he knows no distinction 'twixt 
heart's-ease and haws — one would wish, for the sake of 
each nursling so nipp'd, to catch the young rascal and 
have him well whipp'd! 

Alfred. Some compatriot of mine, do I then 
understand, with a cold Northern heart, and a rude 
English hand, has injured your rosebud of France? 

Duke. Sir, I know but little or nothing. . Yet Some 
faces show the last act of a tragedy in their regard; 
though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is not hard to 
divine, more or less, what the plot may have been, and 
what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the scene. And 
whenever I gaze on the face of Lucile, with its pensive 
and passionless languor, I feel that some feeling hath 
burnt there — hurt out and burnt up health and hope. So 
you feel when you gaze down the cup of extinguish'd 
volcanoes ; you judge of the fire once there, by the ravage 
you see — the desire, by the apathy left in its wake, and 
that sense of a moral, immovable, mute impotence. 

Alfred. Humph! — I see you have finished, at last, 
your cigar. Can I offer another? 



— 15 — 

Duke. No, thank you. 

Enter Servant. 
Servant. The coach. 
Duke. To Luchon. 

Alfred. To Luchon? You know the road well? 
Duke. I have often been over it. 

Exit. Curtain. 

End of Scene 1. 



— 16 — 



ACT II, 



Scene 1. — Al Luchon next day. Parlor of Chalet 
occtipied by Litcile o-pcning on garden. Servant 
arranging room. A bell sounds. She opens the door. 

Enters Lord Alfred. 

Alfred. Your mistress expects me. \_Exit Servant. 
Lord Alfred stands by window gazing out. 
Enters Lticile unobserved. 

Alfred. Madam, you see that your latest com- 
mand has secured my immediate obedience — presuming I 
may consider my freedom restored from this day. 

Lucile. I had thought that your freedom from me 
not a fetter has had. Indeed! — in my chains have you 
rested till now? I had not so flattered myself. 

Alfred. For Heaven's sake Madam ! do not jest! 
has the moment no sadness? 

Lucile. 'Tis an ancient tradition, if we wrote, 
when we first love, fo^seeing that hour, wherein of neces- 
sity each would recall from the other the poor foolish 
records of all these emotions, whose pain when recorded 
seem'd bliss, should we write as we wrote? But one 
thinks not of this? At twenty we write believing eternal 
the frail vows we plight; and we smile with a confident 
pity, above the vulgar results of all poor human love; for 
we deem with that vanity common to youth, because what 
we feel in our bosoms, in truth, is novel to us — that 'tis 
novel to earth, and will prove the exception, in durance 
and worth, to the great law to which all on earth must 
incline. The error was noble, the vanity fine. Shall we 
blame it because we survive it? Ah, no; 'twas the youth 
of our youth, my lord, is it not so? 

Alfred. But Madam 



— 17 — 

LuciLE {inter nipt ing^. You know me enough, or 
what I would sa}' is, 3'ou yet recollect (do you not. Lord 
Alfred?) enough of my nature to know that these pledges 
of what was perhaps long ago a foolish affection, I do 
not recall from those motives of prudence which actuate 
all or most women when their love ceases. Indeed, if 
you have such a doubt, to dispel, it I need but remind 
you that ten years these letters have rested unreclaim'd 
in your hands. 

Alfred. You are generous madam. 

LuciLE. Come! {Jayino- her hand on his), do not 
think I abuse the occasion. We gain justice, judgment, 
with years, or else years are in vain. From me not a single 
reproach can you hear. I have to sinn'd to myself — to 
the world — nay, I fear, to you chiefly. The woman who 
loves should, indeed, be the friend of the man that she 
loves. She should heed not her selfish and often mis- 
taken desires, but his interest whose fate her own interest 
inspires; and rather than seek to allure, for her sake, his 
life down the turbulent, fanciful wake of impossible 
destinies, use all her art that his place in the world find its 
place in her heart. I, alas! — I preceived not this truth 
till too late; I tormented your youth, I have darken'd 
your fate. Forgive me this ill I have done for the sake 
of its long expiation. 

A ring-. Enters sei'vant. 

Servant. The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd, 
and insisted — 

LuciLE. The Duke ! say I do not receive till the 
evening. Explain, I have business of private importance. 

Alfred. Let not me interfere with the claims on 
your time, lady ! when you are free from more pleasant 
engagements, allow me to see and to wait on you later. 

\_Exit Alfred to garden. 

LuciLE. Tell the Duke he may enter. 



18 — 



Enters Duke de Li 



Duke. Ah! forgive — I desired so deeply to see you 
to-day. You retired so early last night from the ball — 
this whole week I have seen you pale, silent, preoccupied 
— speak, speak, Lucile, and forgive me! — I know that I 
am a rash fool — but I love you! I love 3'ou, Madame. 
More than language can say! do not deem, O Lucile, 
that the love I no longer have strength to conceal is a 
passing caprice! It is strange to mv nature, it has made 
me, unknown, to myself, a new creature. I implore you 
to sanction and save the new life which I lay at your feet 
with this prayer — Be my wife! stoop, and raise me! 

Lucile. But Duke, my heart. 

Duke. Hush! hush! I know all. Tell me nothing, 
Lucile. 

Lucile. You know all, Duke? Well then, know 
that, in truth, I have learn 'd from the rude lesson taught 
to my 3^outh from m}- own heart to shelter my life; to 
mistrust the heart of another. We are what we must, and 
not whal we would be. I know that one hour assures not 
another. The will and the power are diverse. 

Duke. O madam ! you fence with a feeling you 
know to be true and intense. 'Tis not my life, Lucile, 
that I plead for alone: If your nature I know, 'tis no less 
for your own. That nature will prey on itself; it was 
made to influence others. Consider, that genius craves 
power — what scope for it here? Gifts less noble to me 
give command of that sphere in which genius is power. 
Such gifts you despise? But 3^ou do no disdain what 
such gifts realize! I offer you, lady, a name not 
unknown — a fortune which worthless, without you, is 
grown — all my life at your feet I lay down — at your feet 
a heart which for you, and you only, can beat. 

Lucile. The heart, Duke, that life — I respect both. 
The name and position yow offer, and all that you claim 



— 19 — 

in behalf of their nobler employments, I feel to deserve 
what, in turn, I now ask you — 

Duke. Lucile! 

LuciLE. I ask you to leave me — 

Duke. You do not reject? 

Lucile. I ask you to leave me the time to reflect. 

Duke. You ask rne — ? 

Lucile. The time to reflect. 

Duke. Say — One word! May I hope? 
Anszpe?- inaudible. Duke bends over her hand and departs. 
Enters Lord Alfred. 

Alfred. It was not my fault, Lucile, I have heard 
all. Now the letters {handing her a package). And now 
farewell. When you wed, may you — 

Lucile. Perhaps this farewell is our last, Alfred 
Vargrave, in life, who can tell. Let us part without 
bitterness. Here are your letters. Be assured I retain 
you no more in my fetters ! 

Lord Alfred lingers. 

Alfred. My pride fights in vain with the truth that 
leaps from me. I entreat your pardon, Lucile, for the 
past — I implore for the future your mercy—implore it 
with more of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the 
power which invisibly touches us both in this hour, by 
the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand — 

Lucile. The rights? 

Alfred. Yes, the rights! for what greater to man 
may belong than the right to repair in the future the 
wrong to the past? and the wrong I have done you, of 
yore hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to restore, to 
retrieve, to amend! I, who injured your life, urge the 
right to repair it, Lucile! Be my wife, my guide, my 
good angel, my all upon earth, and accept, for the sake 
of what yet may give worth to my life, its contrition ! 

Lucile. And your pledge to another? 



— 20 — 

Alfred. Hush, hush! my honor will live where my 
love- lives, unshamed. 'Twere poor honor indeed, to 
another to give that life of which you keep the heart. 
Could I live in the light of those young eyes, suppressing 
a lie? Alas, no! your hand holds my whole destiny. I 
can never recall what my lips have avow'd; in j'Our love 
lies whatever can render me proud. For the great crime 
of all my existence hath been to have known you in vain. 
And the duty best seen, and most hallow'd — the duty 
most sacred and sweet is that which hath led me, Lucile, 
to your feet. O speak! and restore me the blessing I lost 
when I lost 3'ou — m}- pearl of all pearls beyond cost! and 
restore to your own life its youth, and restore the vision, 
the rapture, the passion of yore! ere our brows had been 
dimm'd in the dust of the world, when our souls their 
white wings yet exulting unfurl'd! for your eyes rest no 
more on the unquiet man, the wild star of whose course 
its pale orbit outran, whom the formless indefinite future 
of youth, with its lying allurements, distracted. In truth 
I have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel that the 
least of your lovely regards, O Lucile, is worth all the 
world can afford, and the dream which, though followed 
forever, forever doth seem as fleeting, and distant, and 
dim, as of yore when it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on 
the shore of life's untraversed ocean! I know the sole 
path to repose, which my desolate destiny hath, is the 
path by whose course to your feet I return. And who 
else, O Lucile, will so truly discern, and so deeply revere, 
all the passionate strength, the sublimity in you, as he 
whom at length these have saved from himself, for the 
truth they reveal to his worship? 

Lucile. No, x\lfred, if over the present, there arose 
for a moment the mist and glamor of the past it hath now 
rolled away, and our two paths are plain, and those two 
paths divide us. That hand which again mine one 
moment has clasp'd as the hand of a brother, that hand 



— 21 — 

and your honor are pledged to another! forgive, Alfred 
Vargrave, forgive me, if yet for that moment (now past!) 
I have made you forget what was due to yourself and that 
other one. Yes, mine the fault, and be mine the repent- 
ance. Not less, in now owning this fault, Alfred, let me 
own, too, I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. True, 
this meeting I sought, I alone! But oh! deem not it was 
with the thought or your heart to regain, or the past to 
rewaken. No! believe me, it was with the firm and 
unshaken conviction, at least, that our meeting would be 
without peril to you, although haply to me the salvation of 
all my existence. I own, when the rumor first reach'd 
me, which lightly made known to the world your engage- 
ment, my heart and my mind suffer'd torture intense. It 
was cruel to find that so much of the life of my life, half 
unknown to myself, had been silently settled on one upon 
whom but to think it would soon be a crime. Then I said 
to myself, "from the thraldom which time hath not weak- 
en'd there rests but one hope of escape. That image 
which fancy seems ever to shape from the solitude left 
round the ruins of yore, is a phantom. The being I loved 
is no more. What I hear in the silence, and see in the 
lone void of life, is the young hero born of my own 
perish'd youth : and his image, serene and sublime, in m}' 
heart rests unconscious of change and of time. Could I 
see it but once more, as time and as change have made it, 
a thing unfamiliar and strange, see, indeed, that the being 
I loved in my youth is no more, and what rests now is 
only, in truth, the hard pupil of life and the world: then, 
oh, then, I should wake from a dream, and my life be 
again reconciled to the world; and, released from regret, 
take the lot fate accords to my choice." So we met but 
the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd: the danger, 
alas, to yourself! I have err'd. But happy for both that 
this error hath been discover'd as soon as the danger was 
seen! Return, O return to the young Hving love! 



— 22 — 

Whence, alas! if, one moment, you wander'd, think only 
It was more deeply to bury the past love. And, oh! 
believe, Alfred Vargrave, as I go on my far distant path- 
way through life, shall rejoice to treasure in memory all 
in which others have clothed to my fancy with beauty and 
worth your betrothed ! in the fair morning light, in the 
orient dew of that young life, now yours, can you fail to 
renew all the noble and pure aspirations, the truth, the 
freshness, the faith, of your own earnest youth? Yes! 
you will be happy. I, too, in the bliss I foresee for you, 
I shall be happy. And this proves me worthy your 
friendship. And so — let it prove that I cannot — I do not 
— respond to your love. Yes, indeed! be convinced that 
I could not (no, no, never, never!) have render'd you 
happy. And so, rest assured that, if false to the vows 
you have plighted, you would have endured, when the 
first brief, excited emotion was o'er, not alone the remorse 
of honor, but also (to render it worse) disappointed affec- 
tion. Yes, Alfred; you start? but think! if the world was 
too much in your heart, and too little in mine, when we 
parted ten years ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, 
and tears!) have but deepen'd the old demarcations which 
then placed our natures asunder; and we two again, as 
we then were, would still have been strangely at strife. 
In that self-independence which is to my life its necessity 
now, as it once was its pride, had our course through the 
world been henceforth side by side, I should have revolted 
forever, and shock'd your respect for the world's plausibili- 
ties, mock'd, without meaning to do so, and outraged, all 
those social creeds which you live by. 

Alfred. Lucile, each word betrays the love you 
seek to conceal. You refuse me for one reason alone, 
that my love is not free. True, I am not free, but I can 
be ere long, free as the air. I have but to tell the truth to 
Matilda and she will be the first to release me. Matilda's 
relations will snatch any pretext, with pleasure, to break 



— 23 — 

off a match in which they have yielded alone at the whim 
of a spoiled child — a languid approval of me. Her love for 
me is naught but the first fancy succeeding the thought 
she gave to her last doll. She has beauty and fortune 
and youth and her heart is too young to have deeply 
involved all its hopes in the tie which binds us. It is a 
false sense of honor in me to suppress the sad trutli which 
I owe it to her to confess. What right have I to presume 
that this life of mine, wearied already with its frivolous 
strife, is so precious a boon that its withdrawal can wrong 
her? Matilda has all of this world's best gifts and will 
not miss aught I could procure her. In short there is 
nothing in me Matilda will miss when once we have 
parted. 

LuciLE. No, Alfred, no. Oh, do not suppose that 
I blame you, but your honor is pledged to Matilda and 
before me would ever arise her fair face, with eyes so sad, 
so reproachful, yet so kind; they would iiarrow my heart. 
Best all as it is. You have made me an offer of which I 
well know the worth. But doubt is over. My future is 
fixed; m}' course is decided; we meet no more; deem 
this life's good night. If tears fall unbidden at this 
parting, they are tears of a friend. So farewell to the past 
and to you, Alfred Vargrave. \_£x?t Vargrave. 

Lucile throws herself weeping on divan. 

Enters Marie, Countess of Perche. 

The Countess. {^7 aking Lucile in her arms). My 
poor child. I fondled you on my knee when you left, 
as an infant in far-away India, the tomb of your 
mother. I brought 3'ou to pine as a floweret in the 
great Pans town. I soothed your childish sobs 
when I read you the letter that told you your father was 
dead. He had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the 
abysses of statecraft, with varj'ing fortunes, he had 
wander'd the world through, by land and by sea, and 



— 24 — 

knew it in most of its phases, Strong will, subtle tact 
and soft manners had given him skill to conciliate fortune, 
and courage to brave her displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, 
and cast by the wave on his own quick resources, they 
rarely had fail'd his command; often baffled, he ever 
prevail'd, in his combat with fate; to-day fiatter'd and 
fed b}' monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread. 
The offspring of times trouble haunted, he came of a 
family ruin'd in purse, yet noble in name. He lost sight 
of his fortune, at twenty, in France, and, half statesman, 
half soldier, and wholly free lance, had wander'd in 
search of it, over the world, into India. But scarce had 
the nomad unfurl'd his wandering tent at Mysore, in the 
smile of a Rajah (whose court he controll'd for a while, 
and whose council he prompted andgovern'd by stealth); 
scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian princess, who 
died giving you birth before he was borne to the tomb of 
his wife at Mysore. 

LuciLE. Then take me once more to your arms 
to your heart, and the places of old — never, never to 
part! Once more to the palm and the fountain! Once 
more to the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore! 
From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret of their 
turmoil wherever m}' footsteps are set; from the children 
that cry for the birth, and behold, there is no strength to 
bear them — old time is so old — back — back to the Orient, 
to the palms! to the tomb of my mother! to the still 
sacred river! where I too, the child of a day that is done, 
first leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun, back 
again, back again, to the hill tops of home. Do you still 
remember the free games I play'd on the hill, 'mid those 
huge stones upheav'd, where we recklessly trod o'er the 
old ruin'd fane of the old ruin'd god! how he frown'd 
while around him I careless'y play'd! that frown on my 
life ever after hath stay'd. I am no longer the free child, 
I forget. I am a sad woman, defrauded of rest; I bear 



— 25 — 

to you only a laboring breast; my heart is a storm-beaten 
ark, wildly hiirl'd o'er the whirlpools of time, with the 
wrecks of a world ; the dove from my bosom hath flown 
far away; it is flown and returns not, though many a day 
have I watch'd from the windows of life for its coming. 
I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming. I know not 
what Ararat rises for me far away, o'er the waves of the 
wandering sea; I know not what rainbow may yet, from 
far hills, lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills, but 
a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breast wakes 
and whispers me on — to the East! to the East! Shall I 
find the child' heart that I left there? or find the lost 
youth I recall with its pure peace of mind? Who shall seal 
up the caverns the earthquake hath rent? Who shall bring 
forth the winds that within them are pent? Let me return, 
a recluse, to those cloisters of yore, whence too far I have 
wander'd. How many long years does it seem to me 
now since the quick, scorching tears, while I wrote to 
you, splash'd out a girl's moans of pain at what w^omen 
in silence endure! To your eyes, friend of mine, and to 
your eyes alone, that now long-faded page of my life hath 
been shown which recorded my heart's birth and death, as 
you know, many years since — how many! A few months 
ago I seem'd reading it backward, that page! The old 
dream of my life rose again. The old superstition! the 
idol of old! It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould 
is not to the forest more lost than to me, that emotion. I 
bury it there by the sea which will bear me anon far away 
from the shore of this land, which my footsteps will visit 
no more. And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave. 
And I seem as unreal and w^eird to myself as those idols 
of old. Other times, other men, other passions! So 
be it! yet again I turned to my birthplace, the birth- 
place of morn, and the light of those lands where the 
great sun is born! Spread your arms, O my friend! on 
your breast let me rest for awhile, I am weary. Hark! 



— 26 — 

the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the wave, seem 
like voices of spirits that whisper me home! I come, O 
you whispering voices, I come! 

End of Scene 1. 

ACT II. 

Scene 2. — A suiall inn in tlic mounlaiiis zuhcre Lncilc has 
has stopped after leaving Lnclion. Time — Day suc- 
ceeding last scene. Lucile seated at table. Servant 
brings letter. 

LuciLE {reading letter'). "I know why now you 
refuse me: 'tis for the man who has trifled before, 
wantonl}', and now trifles again with the heart you deny 
to myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law, I 
will seize on the right to avenge for you, woman, the past, 
and to give to the future its freedom. That man shall 
not live to make you as wretched as you have made me! 

"Duke de Luvois." 

Lucile {hastily zvrites answer and reads it over as 
follozus). "Your letter makes me stay till I see you 
again. With no moment's delay I entreat, I conjure you, 
by all that you feel or profess, to come to me directly. 

"Lucile." 
Kings for servant. Enter servant. 

Lucile. Send this at once. \_Exit servant. 

Enters Duke. 

Duke. You relent? And your plans have been 
changed by the letter? 

Lucile. Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd 
man's life — woman's honor. 

Duke. The last, madam, not? 

Lucile. Both. I glance at your own words; 
blush, son of the knighthood of France, as I read them! 
You say in this letter — "I know why now you refuse me: 



— 27 — 

'tis (is it not so?) for the man who has trifled before, 
wantonly, and now trifles again with the heart you deny 
to myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law, 
I will seize on the right (the right Duke de Luvois!) to 
avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give to the 
future its freedom. That man shall not live to make you 
as wretched as you have made me!" 

Duke. Well, Madam, in those words what word do 
you see. that threatens the honor of woman? 

LuciLE. See! — what, what word, do you ask? 
Every word! would you not, had I taken your hand thus, 
have feh that your name was soiled and dishonor'd by 
more than mere shame if the woman that bore it had first 
been the cause of the crime in which these words is 
menaced? You pause! Woman's honor, you ask? Is 
there, sir, no dishonor in the smile of a woman, when 
men, gazing on her, can shudder and say: "In that 
smile is a grave!" No! you can have no cause, Duke, 
for no right you have in the contest you menace. That 
contest but draws every right into ruin. By all human 
laws of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities of man's 
social honor! — 

Duke. I obey you, but let woman beware how she 
plays fast and loose thus with human despair, and the 
storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right when 
you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite. But you 
should from the first have done this, for I feel that you 
knew from the first that I loved you. Lucile, was I 
wrong? Is it so? 

Lucile. Hear me, Duke! you must feel that what- 
ever you deem your right to reproach me in this, your 
esteem I may claim on one ground — I at least am sincere. 
You say that to me from the first it was clear that you 
loved me. But what if this knowledge were known at a 
moment in life when I felt most alone, and least able to 
be so? a moment, in fact, when I strove from one haunt- 



— 28 — 

ing regret to retract and emancipate life, and once more 
to fulfill woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? Would you 
still so bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois, if I hoped 
to see all this, or dreem'd that I saw for a moment the 
promise of this in the plighted affection of one who, in 
nature, united so much that from others affection might 
claim, if only affection were free? Do you blame the 
hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart free from all, 
saving sorrow. I deemed that in me there was yet 
strength to mould it once more to my will, to uplift it 
once more to my hope. Do you still blame me, Duke, 
that I did not then bid you refrain from hope? alas! I, 
too, then hoped! 

Duke. Oh, again — yet again, say that thrice blessed 
word! say, Lucile, that you then deign'd to hope — 

LuciLE. Yes! to hope 1 could feel, and could give 
to you, that without which all else given were but to 
deceive, and to injure you even, a heart free from thoughts 
of another. Say, then, do you blame that one hope? 

Duke. O Lucile! 

Lucile. Say again, do you blame me that, when I 
at last had to own to my heart that the hope it had 
cherish'd was o'er, and forever, I said to you then: 
"Hope no more? " I myself hoped no more! 

Duke. What, then ! he re-crosses your path, this 
man, and you have but to see iiim, despite of his troth to 
another, to take back that light, worthless heart to your 
own, which he wrong'd years ago! 

Lucile. No! no! 'tis not that — but alas! — but I 
cannot conceal that I have not forgotten the past — but I 
feel that I cannot accept all these gifts on your part, — in 
return for what — ah, Duke, what is it? — a heart which is 
only a ruin !" 

Duke. Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild 
and restore it, though ruin'd it be, since so dear is that 
ruin, ah, yield it to me ! 



— 29 — 

LuciLE. No. 

Duke. Am I right? You reject me, accept him? 

LuciLE. I have not done so. 

Duke. Not yet — no! But can you with accents as 
firm promise me that you will not accept him? 

LuciLE. Accept! Is he free — free to offer? 

Duke. You evade me, Lucile; ah, you will not 
avow what you feel! He might make himself free? Oh, 
you blush— turn away? Dare you openly look in my 
face, lady, say ! While you deign to reply to one question 
from me? I may hope not, you tell me : but tell me, may he? 
What! silent? I alter my question. If quite freed in 
faith from this troth, might he hope then? 

Lucile. He might. {Moves toward door). Fare- 
well! We, alas! have mistaken each other. Once more 
illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. Duke de Luvois, 
adieu ! 

End of Act II. 



30 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. — Ems, a German zuafering flace. A garde^i 
near the ■promenade. Time — August, i82g. Matilda, 
wife of Alfred Var grave, seated on rustic bench. 
Duke de Luvois standing near. 

Matilda. This poor flower seems out of place in 
this hot air {^plucking petals from a rose). Duke, you 
know, then, this — lady? 

Duke. Too well. She is -just back from her long 
hiding place at the source of the sunrise. Back from her 
far home in India to the cities of Europe and the scenes 
of men. Back to the lite she had led. Tiie charming 
Lucile, the gay Countess, to her old friend the world has 
re-opened the door and the world seems pleased and 
amused. 

Matilda. Have you met her? 

Duke. Not since her return. 

Matilda, You draw her portrait with ardor. 

Duke. With ardor? 

Matilda. You describe her as possessed of charms 
all unrivaled. 

Duke. Alas! you mistook me completely! You, 
madam, surpass this lady as moonlight does lamplight; 
as youth surpasses its best imitations; as truth the fairest 
of falsehood surpasses; as natuie surpasses art's master- 
piece ; ay, as the creature fresh and pure in its native 
adornment surpasses all the charms got by heart at the 
world's looking-glasses! 

Matilda. Yet you said that you quite compre- 
hended a passion so strong as — 

Duke. True, true! but not in a man that had once 
look'd at you. Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or — 



— 31 — 

Matilda. Hush! hush! Between man and woman 
these things differ so! It may be that the world pardons 
(how should I know?) in you what it visits on us; or 'tis 
true, it may be that we women are better than you. 

Duke. Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more 
you mistake. The world, in its judgment, some difference 
may make 'twixt the man and the woman so far as respects 
its social enchantments; but not as affects the one senti- 
ment which it were easy to prove, is the sole law we look 
to the moment we love. 

Matilda. That may be. Yet I think I should be 
less severe. Although so inexperienced in such things, I 
fear I have learn 'd that the heart cannot always repress 
or account for the feelings which sway it. 

Duke. Yes ! 3'es ! that is too true, indeed ! And yet! 
what avails, then, to woman, the gift of a beauty like yours 
if it cannot uplift her heart from the reach of one doubt, 
one despair, one pang of wrong'd love, to which women 
less fair are exposed when they love? Young, lovely and 
loving, as you are, are you loved? 

Matilda. 'Tis three vears since the day when I 
first was a bride, and my husband I never had cause to 
suspect; nor never havestoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. 
Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see — see, or fancy 
— some moment's oblivion of me, I trust that I too should 
forget it — for you must have seen that m}' heart is my 
husband's. 

Duke. Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to 
invade b}' disclosing my ow"? The position in which we 
so strangely seem placed may excuse the frankness and 
force of the words which I use. You say that your heart 
is your husband's. You say that you love him. You 
think so, of course, lady, but, trust me, no true love there 
can be without its dread penalty — jealousy. Well, do not 
start! Until now — either thanks to a singular art of 
supreme self-control, you have held them all down unre- 



— 32 — 

veal'd in your heart, or you never have known even one 
of those fierce, irresistible pangs whijch deep passion 
engenders; that anguish which hangs on the heart like a 
nightmare, by jealousy bred. But if, lady, the love you 
describe, in the bed of a blissful security thus hath reposed 
undisturb'd, with mild eyelids on happiness closed, were 
it not to expose to a peril unjust, and most cruel, that 
happy repose you so trust, to meet, to receive, and, 
indeed, it may be, for how long I know not, continue to 
see a woman whose place rivals yours in the life and the 
heart which not only your title of wife, but also (forgive 
me!) your beauty alone should have made wholly yours? 
You, who gave all your own! Reflect! 'Tis the peace 
of existence you stake on the turn of a die. And for 
whose — for his sake? While you witness this woman, 
the false point of view from which she must now be 
regarded . by you will exaggerate to you, whatever they 
be, the charms I admit she possesses. To me they are 
trivial indeed; yet to vour eyes, I fear and forsee, they 
will true and intrinsic appear. Self-unconscious, and 
sweetly unable to guess how more lovely by far is the 
grace you posses, you will wrong your own beaut}^ The 
graces of art, 3'ou will take for the natural charm of the 
heart; studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee, 
will too soon in that fatal comparison be to your fancy 
more fair than the sweet timid sense which, in shrinking, 
betrays ils ovyn best eloquence. O then, lady, then, you 
will feel in your heart the poisonous pain of a fierce, jeal- 
ous dart! While you see her, yourself 3'ou no longer w^ill 
see — vou wnll hear her, and hear not yourself — you will 
beunhapp}'; unhappy because you will deem your own 
power less great than her power will seem. And I 
shall not be by your side, day by day, in despite of your 
noble displeasure, to say: "You are fairer than she, as 
the star is more fair than the diamond, the brightest that 
beauty can wear! " 



— 33 — 

Matilda. Sir, the while I thank you, for your 
fervor in painting my fancied distress; allow me the right 
some surprise to express at the zeal you betray in disclos- 
ing to me the possible depth of my own misery. 

Duke. That zeal would not startle you, madam, 
could you read in my heart, as myself I have read. The 
peculiar interest which causes that zeal — 

Matilda. Duke, I continue to hear; but permit me 
to say, I no more understand. 

Duke. Forgive, oh, forgive me! I forgot that 5'OU 
know me so slightly. Your leave I entreat (from 3'our 
anger those words to retrieve) for one moment to speak 
of myself — for I think that you wrong me. Beneath an 
exterior which seems, and may be, worldly, frivolous, 
careless, my heart hides in me, a sorrow which draws me 
to side with all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not, at so 
strange an avowal. O, lady! alas, could you know what 
injustice and wrong in this world I have seen ! How many 
a woman, believed to have been without a regret, I have 
known turn aside to burst into heartbroken tears 
undescried ! On how many a lip have I witness'd the smile 
which but hid what was breaking the poor heart the while 1 

Matilda. Your life, it would seem, then, must be 
one long act of devotion. 

Duke. Perhaps so, but at least that devotion small 
merit can boast, for one day may yet come — if one day 
at the most — when, perceiving at last all the difference — 
how great! 'twixt the heart that neglects, and the heart 
that can wait, 'twixt the natures that pity, the natures 
that pain some woman, that else might have pass'd in 
disdain or indifference by me — in passing that day might 
pause with a word or a smile to repay this devotion — and 
then — 

Enter Alfred Var grave and Lttcile strolling through the 
q-arden. Lord Alfred introduces his tvife to Liicile. 
All zvalk toicard hotel. Lticile and Duke side by side. 



— 34 — 

LuciLE {to the Duke). Duke de Luvois, let us 
feel that the friendship between us in years that are fled 
has survived one mad moment forgotten. Do you remain 
at Ems? 

Duke. Perchance, I have here an attraction. 
( Glancing tozvard Matilda. ) And you — 

LuciLE. I, too. 
{yoius. Matilda and both exit, leaving Lord Alfred and 
Duke in the garden.) 

Duke. We meet her, once more, the woman for 
whom we two madmen of yore (laugh, mon t//gr Alfred, 
laugh!) were about to destroy each other! 

Alfred. It is not with laughter that I raise the 
ghost of that once troubled time. Say! can you recall it 
with coolness and quietude now? 

Duke. Now? yes! I, mon cher, am a true Parisicn: 
Now, the red revolution, the tocsin, and then the dance 
and the play. I am now at the play. 

Alfred. At the play, are you now? Then perchance 
I now may presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until such 
a moment, I waited — 

Duke. Oh! ask what you will. Franc jeu! on the 
table my cards I spread out. Ask! 

Alfred. Duke, you were called to a meeting (no 
doubt you remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night 
when you went; and before you return'd it was light. 
We met: you accosted me then with a brow bright with 
triumph: your words (you remember them now!) Were 
let us be friends! 

Duke. Well? 

Alfred. How then, after that, can you and she 
meet as acquaintances? 

Duke. What! Did she not tiien, herself, the Com- 
tesse de Nevers, solve your riddle to-night with those soft 
lips of hers? 



— 35 — 

Alfred. In our converse to-night we avoided the 
past, but the question I ask should be answer'd at last; 
by you, if you will; if you will not, by her. 

Duke. Indeed? but that question, milord, can it 
stir such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er? 

Alfred. Yes. Esteem may remain, although love 
be no more, Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife 
(understand, to my wife!) to present her. I did so. Her 
hand has clasped that of Matilda. We gentlemen owe 
respect to the name that is ours; and, if so, to the woman 
that bears it a twofold respect. Answer, Duke de Luvois ! 
Did Lucile then reject the proffer you made of your hand 
and your name? Or did you on her love then relinquish 
a claim urged before? I ask bluntly this question, because 
my title to do so is clear by the laws that all gentlemen 
honor. Make only one sign that you know of Lucile de 
Nevers aught, in fine, for which, if your own virgin sister 
were by, from Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, 
and I and Matilda leave Ems on the morrow. 

Duke. Nay! Madame de Nevers had rejected me. 
I, in those days, I was mad, and in some mad reply I 
threatened the life of the rival to whom that rejection was 
due, I was led to presume. She feared for his life; and 
the le-tter which then she wrote me, I show'd you. We 
met; and again my hand was refused, and my love 
was denied. The glance you mistook was the vizard 
which pride lends to humiliation. And so, in this best 
world, 'tis all for the best; you are wedded (bless'd 
Englishman ! ) wedded to one whose past can be call'd into 
question by none; and I (fickle Frenchman!) can still 
laugh to feel I am lord to myself, and the mode; and 
Lucile still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair as 
yon German moon o'er the linden tops there! A Dian in 
marble that scorns any troth with the little love-gods, 
whom I thank for us both, while she smiles from her 



— 36 — 

lonely Olympus apart, that her arrows are marble as wel 
as her heart. Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave I 

End of Scene 1. 



ACT III. 

Scene 2. — Same as Scene i. Night. Ten days later. 
Enter Lord Alfred, who meets Lticile tualking through 
the garden. 

Alfred. Thank the good stars, we meet. I have 
so much to say to you. 

LuciLE. Yes, and I, too, was wishing indeed to say 
somewhat to you. 

.Alfred. Are you ill? 

LuciLE. No, no! 

Alfred. You alarm me. 

LuciLE. If your thoughts have of late sought, or 
cared to divine the purpose of what has been passing in 
mine, my farewell can scarcely alarm you. 

Alfred. Lucile ! your farewell! You go ! 

LuciLE. Yes, Lord Alfred. 

Alfred. Reveal the cause of this sudden unkind- 
ness. 

Lucile. Unkind? 

Alfred. Yes! what else is this parting? 

Lucile. No, no! are you blind? Look into your 
own heart and home. Can you see no reason for this 
save unkindness in me? Look into the eyes of 3^our wife 
— those true eyes, too pure and too honest in aught to 
disguise the sweet soul shining through them. 

Alfred. Lucile! (first and last be the word, if you 
will!) let me speak of the past. I know now, alas! 
though I know it too late, what pass'd at that meeting 
which settled my fate. Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet! 
let it be! I but say what is due to yourself — due to me, 



— 37 — 

and must say it. When the Duke returned from that 
meeting with you, forgive me, Lucile, but from his look 
and his laughter. O Lucile, what was left me when my 
life was defrauded of you, but to take that life, as 'twas 
left, and endeavor to make unobserved b}' another, the 
void which remain'd unconceal'd to myself? If I have 
not attain'd, I have striven. One word of unkindness 
has never pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has 
ever received my submission. And if, of a truth, I have 
failed to renew what I felt in my youth, I at least have 
been loyal to what I do feel, respect, duty, honor, affec- 
tion, Lucile, I speak not of love now, nor love's long 
regret; I would not offend you, nor dare I forget the ties 
that are round me. But may there not be a friendship 
yet hallow'd between you and me? May we not be yet 
friends — friends the dearest? 

Lucile. Alas! for one moment, perchance, did 
it pass through my own heart, that dream which for- 
ever hath brought to those who indulge it in innocent 
thought so fatal an evil awaking! But no. For in 
lives such as ours are, the dream-tree would grow on 
the borders of hades: beyond it, the cries of the lost 
and tormented. Departed, for us, are the days when 
with innocence we could discuss dreams like these. 
Fled, indeed, are the dreams of my hfe! Oh trust me, 
the best friend you have is your wife. And I — in that 
pure child's pure virtue, I bow to the beauty of virtue. I 
felt on niy brow not one blush when I first took her hand. 
With no blush shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. 
Hush! hush I would say what I wish'd to have said when 
you came do not think that years leave us and find us the 
same! the woman you knew long ago, long ago, is no 
more. You yourself have within you, I know, the germ 
of a joy in the years yet to be, whereby the past years 
will bear fruit. As for me, I go my own way, — onward, 
upward ! O yet, let me thank you for that which ennobled 



— 38 — 

regret when it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled, — 
the love I once felt for you. True, it is dead, but it is 
not corrupted. I too have at last lived to learn that love 
is not — the sole part of life, which is able to fill up the 
heart; even that of a woman. Between you and me 
heaven fixes a gulf, over which you must see that our 
guardian angels can bear us no more. We- each of us 
stand on an opposite shore. Trust a woman's opinion for 
once. Women learn, by an instinct men never attain, to 
discern each other's true natures. Matilda is fair, Matilda 
is young — how tenderly fashion'd (oh, is she not? say), 
to love and be loved! 

Alfred. Matilda is 3'oung, and Matilda is fair; of 
all that A'OU tell me pray deem me aware; but Matilda's 
a statute, Matilda's a child; Matilda loves not^ — 

LuciLE. Yesterda}^ all that you say might be true; 
it is false, wholly false, though, to-day. 

Alfred. How? What mean you? 

LuciLE. I mean that to-day the statue with life has 
become vivified. I mean that the child to a woman has 
grown and that woman is iealous. 

Alfred. What she! She jealous! — Matilda! — of 



me 



whom, pray — not 

LuciLE. My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but 
you is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank, HeaVen, 
too, that so lately this passion within her hath grown or 
that knowledge perchance might have cost 3'ou more 
dear. 

Alfred. Explain! Explain, madam ! 

LuciLE. How blind are you men! Can you doubt 
that a woman, 3'oung, fair and neglected — 

Alfred. Speak out! Lucile, you mean — what! 
Do you doubt her fidelity? 

Lucile. Certainly not. Listen to me, my friend. 
What I wish to explain is so hard to shape forth. I 
could almost refrain from toucliing a subject so fragile. 



— 39 — 

However, bear with me a while if I frankly endeavor to 
invade for one moment your innermost life. Your honor, 
Lord Alfred, and that of your wife, are dear to me — most 
dear? And I am convinced that you rashly are risking 
that honor. 

Alfred. Stay, Lucile ! What in truth do you 
mean by these words, vaguely framed to alarm me? 
Matilda? — my wife? — do you know? — 

Lucile. I know that your wife is as spotless as 
snow, but I know not how far your continued neglect her 
nature, as well as her heart, might affect. For jealousy 
is to a woman, be sure, a disease heal'd too oft by a 
criminal cure; and the heart left too long to its ravage in 
time may find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime. 

Alfred. Such thoughts could have never reach 'd 
the heart of Matilda. 

Lucile. Matilda? oh no! But reflect! When such 
thoughts do not come of themselves to t!ie heart of a 
woman neglected, like elves that seek lonely places — 
there rarely is wanting some voice at her side, with an 
evil enchanting, to conjure them to her. 

Alfred. I search everywhere for a clew to your 
words — 

Lucile. You mistake them. I was putting a mere 
hypothetical case. 

Alfred. Woe to him — woe to him that shall feel 
such a hope ! for I swear, if he did but reveal one glimpse 
— it should be the last hope of his life! 

Lucile. You forget that you menace yourself. You 
yourself are the man that is guilty. Alas! must it ever 
be so? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, 
and fight our own shadows forever? O think! The trial 
from which you, the stronger ones, shrink, you ask 
woman, the weaker one, still to endure; you bid her be 
true to the laws you abjure; to abide by the ties you 
3'ourselves rend asunder, with the force that has fail'd 



— 40 — 

you; and that too, when under the assumption of rights 
which to her you refuse, the immunity claim'd for your- 
selves vou abuse! Where the contract exists, it 
involves obligation to both husband and wife, in an equal 
relation You unloose, in asserting your own liberty, a 
knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free. Then, O 
Alfred! be juster at heart, and thank Heaven that Heaven 
to your wife such a nature has given that 3'ou have not 
wherewith to reproach her, albeit you have cause to 
reproach your own self, could you see it! 

Alfred. Lucile, I both understand and obey you. 

LuciLE. Thank Heaven. 

Alfred. One word, I beseech you! I can not 
forget. We are parting for life. You have shown my 
pathway to me; but say, what is your own? 

Lucile. Nay, I know not. I follow the way Heaven 
leads me; I can not foresee to what end. I know onl}'^ 
that far, far away it must tend from all places in which 
we have met, or might meet. Far away — onward — upward ! 

Alfred. Wheresoever it be, may all gentlest angels 
attend you! And bear my heart's blessing wherever you 
are! pisses her handj \_Exit Lucile and Alfred. 

Enters Matilda, who has seen Lord Alfred kiss the hand 
of Lticile. Crosses the garden and seats herself on 
bench. Enters Duke, who approaches her unnoticed. 

Duke. Ah, lady, there are meetings in life which 
seem like a fate, dare I think like a sympathy too? Yet 
what else can I bless for this vision of you? Alone with 
my thoughts, on this starlighted lawn, by an instinct 
resistless, I felt myself drawn to revisit the memories left 
in the place where so lately this evening I look'd in your 
face. And I find — you, yourself — my own dream! Can 
there be in this world one thought common to you and to 
me? If so — I, who deem'd but a moment ago my heart 
uncompanion'd, save only by woe, should indeed be more 



— 41 — 

bless'd than I dare to believe — Ah, but one word, but one 
from your lips to receive — 

Matilda. I sought, here, a moment of solitude, 
silence and thought, which I needed. 

Duke. Lives solitude only for one? Must its charm, 
by my presence, so soon be undone? Ah, cannot two 
share it? What needs it for this? — the same thought in 
both hearts, — be it sorrow or bliss; if my heart be the 
reflex of yours, lady — you, are not yet alone, — even 
though we be two? 

Matilda. For that — needs were, you should read 
what I have in my heart — 

Duke. Think you, lady, indeed, you are yet of that 
age when a woman conceals in her heart so completely 
whatever she feels from the heart of the man whom it 
interests to know and find out what that feeling may be? 
Ah, not so, Lad}^ Alfred! Forgive me that in it I look, 
but I read in your heart as I read in a book. 

Matilda. Well, Duke! and what read you within 
it unless it be, of a truth, a profound weariness, and 
some sadness? 

Duke. No doubt. To all facts there are laws. 
The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause. You 
are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first need of a young 
and a beautiful woman is to be beloved, and to love. You 
are sad: for you see that you are not beloved, as you 
deem'd that you were: you are sad: for that knowledge 
hath left you aware that you have not yet loved, though 
you thought that you had. Yes, yes! — you are sad — 
because knowledge is sad! 

Matilda. What gave you such strange power? 

Duke. O lady, — a love, deep, profound — be it 
blamed or rejected, — a love, true, intense — such, at least, 
as you, and you only, could wake in my breast! 

Matilda. I beseech you — hush, hush! — for pity! 



— 42 — 

Duke. For pity? — for pity! And what is the pity 
you owehim? Hispit}^ for you ! He, the lord of a life, fresh 
as new-fallen dew! The guardian and guide of a woman, 
young, f^ir, and matchless! (whose happiness did he not 
swear to cherish through life?) He neglects her — for 
whom? For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the bloom 
of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can prevail to 
keep sleepless with song the aroused nightingale, is not 
fair; for even in the pure world of flowers her symbol is 
not, and, this pure world of ours has no second Matilda! 
For whom? Let that pass! 'Tis not I, 'tis not you, that 
can name her, alas! and I dare not question or judge her. 
But why, wh}'^ cherish the cause of your own misery? 
Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you? VVh}' be 
bound by a chain which himself he breaks through? and 
why, since you have but to stretch forth your hand, the 
love which you need and deserve to command, why 
shrink? Why repel it? 

Matilda. O hush, sir! O hush! Cease, cease, I 
conjure you, to trouble my life ! is not Alfred your friend? 
and am I not his wife? 

Duke. And have I not, lady — respected his rights 
as a friend till himself he neglected your rights as a 
wife? Do you think 'tis alone for days I have loved 
you? My love may have grown, I admit, day by 
day, since I first felt your eyes, in watching their tears, 
and in sounding your sighs. But, O lady! I loved you 
before I believed that your eyes ever wept, or your heart 
ever grieved then I deem'd you were happy — I deemed 
you possess'd all the love you deserved, — and I hid in my 
breast my own love, till this hour — when I could not but 
feel your grief gave me the right my own grief to reveal! 
I knew, years ago, of the singular power which Lucile 
o'er your husband possess'd. Till the hour in which he 
reveal'd it himself, did I, — say! — by a word, or a look, 
such a secret betray? No! no! do me justice. I never 



— 43 — 

have spoken of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had 
broken which bound your heart to him. And now — now, 
that his love for another hath left your own heart free to 
rove, what is it, — even' now, — that I kneel to implore vou? 
only this, Lady Alfred! — to let me adore you unblamed: 
to have confidence in me : to spend on me not one thought, 
save to think me your friend let me speak to you, — ah, let 
me speak to you still! hush to silence my words in your 
heart if you will. I ask no response: I ask only your 
leave to live yet in your life, and to grieve when you 
grieve ! 

Matilda. Leave me, leave me! — For pity's sake, 
Duke, let me go ! I feel that to blame we should both of 
us be, did I linger. 

Duke. To blame? Yes, no doubt, if the love of 
your husband, in bringing you peace, had forbidden you 
hope. But he signs your release by the hand of another. 
One moment! but one! Who knows when, alas! I may 
see you alone as to-night I have seen 5'ou? or when we 
may meet as to-night we have met? when, entranced at 
your feet, as in this blessed hour, I may ever avow the 
thoughts which are pining for utterance now? 

Matilda. Duke! Duke! for Heaven's sake let 
me go! It is late. In the house they will miss me, I 
know. We must not be seen here together. The night is 
advancing. I feel overwhelm'd with affright ! It is time 
to return to my lord. 

Duke. To your lord? to your lord? Do you think 
he awaits you in truth? Is he anxioush' missing 3'our 
presence, forsooth? Return to your lord! — his restraint 
to renew and hinder the glances which are not for you? 
No, no! At this moment his looks seek the face of 
another! Another is there in your place! Another con- 
soles him! Another receives the soft speech which from 
silence your absence relieves! 



— 44 — 

Lucile has entered unobserved and heard conversation. 

LuciLE. You mistake, sir! You mistake, sirl 
That other is here. 

Matilda, Lucile ! 

Duke, Ho, oh! What! Eaves-dropping, madam? 
And so you were listening? 

Lucile. Say, rather, that I heard, without wishing 
to hear it, that infamous word. Heard — and therefore 
reply. 

Duke. Belle Comtesse, you know that your place is 
not here. 

Lucile, Duke, my place is wherever my duty is 
clear; and therefore my place, at this moment, is here. 
O lady, this morning my place was beside your husband, 
because I felt that from folly fast growing to crime — the 
crime of self-blindness — Heaven yet spared me time to 
save for the love of an innocent wife all that such love 
deserved in the heart and the life of the man to whose 
heart and whose life you alone can with safet}^ confide 
the pure trust of your own. 'Tis, O lady, the honor 
which that man has confided to you, that, in spite of his 
friend, I now trust I may yet save to-night — save for both 
of 3'OU, lady, for yours 1 revere; Duke de Luvois, what 
say you? — my place is not here? Now go. 

\_Exit Duke. 

Lucile {continuing). In the name of your husband, 
dear lady; in the name of your mother, take heart! Lift 
your head, for those blushes are noble! Alas! do not 
trust to that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust, that 
the fault of the husband can cancel the wife's. Take 
heart and take refuge and strength in your life's pure 
silence — there, kneel, pray and hope, weep and wait. 

Matilda. Saved, Lucile! but saved to what fate? 
Tears, prayers, yes! not hopes. 

Lucile. Hush, your husband will return. Doubt 
not this. And return for the love you can give, with the 



— 45 — 

love that you yearn to receive, lady. What was it chill'd 
you both now? Not the absence of love, but the 
ignorance how love is nourish'd b}^ ^ove. Well, hence- 
forth you will prove your heart worthy of love — since it 
knows how to love. 

Matilda. What gives you such power over rne that 
I feel thus drawn to obey 3'ou? What are you, Lucile? 

LuciLE. The pupil of sorrow, perchance. 

Matilda. Of sorrow? O confide to my heart your 
affliction. In all you made known I should find some 
instruction, do doubt, for my own! 

Lucile. And I some consolation, no doubt; for the 
tears of another have not flow'd for me man}- years. 
{Both rising.) 

Lucile. And now to your room. 

Matilda. You have heard this night the happy 
watchword passed from earth up to Heaven — all is well! 
all is well! [^avV both. 

Enter Lord Alfred from opposite side. Enter John 
Somerset from center. 

Alfred. Cousin John. 

John. Alfred. 

Alfred. What is the matter, Jack? Why do you 
look so — 

John. What! have you not heard? 

Alfred. Heard what? 

John. This sad business — 

Alfred. I? no, not a word. 

John. You received my last letter? 

Alfred. I think so. If not, what then? 

John. You have acted upon it? 

Alfred. On what? 

John. The advice that I gave you — 

Alfred. Advice? — let me see? You always are 
giving advice, Jack, to me. About Parliament, was it? 



— 46 — 

John. Hang Parliament! no. The bank, the bank, 
Alfred! 

Alfred. What bank? 

John. Heavens. I know you are careless; — but 
surely you have not forgotten, — or neglected — I warn'd 
30U the whole thing was rotten. You have drawn those 
deposits at least? 

Alfred. No, I meant to have written to-day; but 
the note shall be sent to-morrow, however. 

John. To-morrow? too late.! Too late! oh, what 
devil bewitch'd 3^ou to wait? 

Alfred. Mere}' save us! you don't mean to say — 

John. Yes, I do. Sir Ridley McNab. 

Alfred. What! Sir Ridley? Matilda's uncle? 

John. Smash'd, broken, blown up, bolted too! 

Alfred. But his own niece! — In heaven's name, 
Jack. 

John. Oh, I told you the old hypocritical scoundrel 
would — 

Alfred. Hold! you surely can't mean we are 
ruin'd? 

John. Sit down ! A fortnight ago a report about town 
made me most apprehensive. I at once wrote and warn'd 
you. A run on the ban"k about five days ago confirm'd 
my forebodings too terribly, though. I drove down to the 
city at once; found the door of the bank closed: the bank 
had stopp'd payment at four. Next morning the failure 
was known to be fraud: warrant out for McNab: but 
McNab was abroad: gone — we cannot tell where. I 
endeavor'd to get information: have learn'd nothing cer- 
tain as yet — not even the way that old Ridley has gone: 
or with those securities what he had done: or whether 
they had been alread}' call'd out: if they are not, their 
fate is, I fear, past a doubt. Twent}- families ruin'd, they 
say: what was left, — unable to find any clew to the cleft 
the old fox ran to earth in, — but join you as fast as I 



— 47 — 

could, my dear Alfred? Courage, courage 1 — bear the 
blow like a man ! 

Alfred. I bear it, but Matilda? The blow is to her! 

John. Matilda? Pooh, pooh! I half think I know 
the girl better than you. She has courage enough — and 
to spare. She cares less than most women for luxury, 
nonsense, and dress. 

Alfred. The fault has been mine. 

John. Be it yours to repair it: If you did not avert 
it, you may help her to bear it. 

Alfred. I miglit have averted it. 

John. Perhaps so. But now there is clearly no use 
in considering how, or whence, came the mischief. The 
mischief is here. Broken shins are not mended by cry- 
ing — that's clear! One has but to rub them, and get up 
again, and push on — and not think too much of the pain. 
And at least it is much that you see that to her you owe 
too much to think of yourself. You must stir and arouse 
yourself, Alfred, for her sake. Who knows? Some- 
thing yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose we 
shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least. 

Alfred. O, Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast! 
a fool! I have sinn'd, and to her I have sinn'd! I have 
been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind! And now, in a 
flash, I see all things! 

John. Where is she? 

Lord Alfred does not reply. 

John. Where is she? 

Alfred. There, I think. {Pointing- to hotel.) 

yohn moves as if to g'o. 

Alfred. One moment, dear Jack! we have grown 
up from boyhood together. Our track has been through 
the same meadows in childhood : in youth through the 
same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth, there is 
none that can know me as you do; and none to whom I 



— 48 — 

more wish to believe myself known. Speak the truth; 
you are not wont to mince it, I know. Nor I, shall I 
shirk it, or shrink from it now. In despite of a wanton 
behavior, in spite of vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which 
might have turn'd from me man}' a heart strong and true 
as your own, I have never turn'd round and miss'd you 
from my side in one hour of affliction or doubt by my own 
blind and heedless self-will brought about. Tell me the 
truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake of those old recollec- 
tions of boyhood that make in your heart yet some clinging 
and crying appeal from a judgment more harsh, which I 
cannot but feel might^ have sentenced our friendship to 
death long ago? or is it — (I would I could deem it were 
so!) that, not all ovei'laid by a listless exterior, your heart 
has divined in me something superior to that which I seem ; 
from my innermost nature not wholly expell'd by the 
world's usurpature? Some instinct of earnestness, truth, 
or desire for truth? Some one spark of the soul's native 
tire moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust which 
life hath heap'd o'er it? Some one fact to trust and to 
hope in? Or by you alone am I deem'd the mere frivolous 
fool I so often have seem'd to my own self? 

John. No, Alfred! you will, I believe, be true, at 
the last, to what now makes you grieve for having belied 
your true nature so long. Necessity is a stern teacher. 
Be strong! 

Alfred. Do you think — what I feel while I speak 
is no more than a transient emotion, as weak as these 
weak tears would seem to betoken it? 

John. No! 

Alfred. Thank you, cousin ! your hand then. And 
now I will go alone. Jack. Trust to me. 

John. I do. But 'tis late if she sleeps, you'll not 
wake her? 



— 49 — 

Alfred. No, no! it will wait (poor infant!) too 
surely, this mission of sorrow; if she sleeps, I will not 
mar her dreams of to-morrow. \_Exit both. 

End of Scene 2. 



ACT III. 

Scene 3. — Room in old ducal inaiision, now used as a 
summej- hotel, being the room of Matilda. Time — 
Same night as Scene 2. Matilda in white robes, with 
hair unconfined, kneels at her bedside as if in prayer. 

Enters Lord Alfred. 

Matilda. O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me, for- 
give me ! 

Alfred. Forgive you, m}^ poor child! But I never 
have blamed you for aught that I know, and 1 have not 
one thought that reproaches you now. When a proud 
man, Matilda, has found out at length, that he is but a 
child in the midst of his strength, but a fool in his wis- 
dom, to whom can he own the weakness which thus to 
himself hath been shown? From whom seek the strength 
which his need of is sore, although in his pride he might 
perish, before he could plead for the one, or the other 
avow 'mid his intimate friends? Wife of mine, tell me 
now, do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour, 
the sole friend that can have the right or the power to be 
at his side, is the woman that shares his fate, if he falter; 
the woman that bears the name dear for her sake, and 
hallows the life she has mingled her own with, — in short, 
that man's wife? 

Matilda. Yes, O yes. 

Alfred. Then, this chamber in which we two sit, 
side by side, is now a confessional; you my confessor, 

Matilda. I? 



— 50 — 

Alfred. Yes, but first answer one other question : 
When a woman once feels that she is not alone; that the 
heart of another is warm'd by her own; that another feels 
with her whatever she feel. That a man for her sake 
will, so long as he lives, live to put forth the strength 
which the thought of her gives; live to shield her from 
want and to share with her sorrow; live to solace the day 
and provide for the morrow: Will that woman feel less 
than another, O say, the loss of what life, sparing this, 
takes away? Will she feel, when calamities come, that 
they brighten the heart though they darken the home. 

Matilda. That woman indeed were thrice blest! 

Alfred. Then courage, true wile of my heart! 
For the refuge to-night in these arms open'dwide to your 
heart can be never closed to it again, and this room is for 
both an asylum! For when I pass'd through that door at 
the door I left there a calamity sudden and heavy to bear. 
One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, we must 
face it henceforth ; but it enters not here, for that door 
shuts it out, and admits here alone a heart which calamity 
leaves all your own. 



Matilda. Calamity, Alfred, to y 



ou 



Alfred. To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring 
with it too the courage, I trust, to subdue it. 

Matilda. O speak! speak! 

Alfred. O yet for a moment, hear me on ! Matilda, 
this morn we went forth in the sun, like those children of 
sunshine, the bright summer flies, that sport in the sun- 
beam, and play through the skies while the skies smile, 
and heed not each other: at last, when their sunbeam is 
gone, and their sky overcast, who recks in what ruin 
they fold their wet wings? So indeed the morn found 
us — poor frivolous things! Now our sky is o'ercast, and 
,our sunbeam is set, and the night brings its darkness 
around us. Oh, yet have we weather'd no storm through 
those twelve cloudless hours? Yes; 3'ou, too, have wept! 



— 51 — 

While the world was yet ours, while its sun was upon us, 
its incense stream'd to us, and its myriad voices of joy 
seem'd to woo us, we stray'd from each other, too far, it 
may be, nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see how 
deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great was thy 
claim on my heart and thy share in my fate! But, 
Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile, watching o'er 
us to warn and to rescue! That smile which you saw 
with suspicion, that presence you eyed with resentment, 
an angel's they were at your side and at mine; nor per- 
chance is the day all so far, when we both in our prayers, 
when most heartfelt they are, may murmur the name of 
that woman now gone from our sight evermore. Here, 
this evening, alone, I seek your forgiveness, in opening 
my heart unto yours— from this clasp be it never to part! 
Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone, but a prize 
richer far than that fortune has won it is yours to confer, 
and I kneel for that prize — 'tis the heart of my wife I 

Matilda. The fortune I brought you all gone? 

Alfeed. The bank has suspended. Sir Ridley has 
fled. 

Matilda. Gone! All gone, poor Alfred, poor 
Alfred. 

Alfred. Poor, innocent child. With my heart 
and my brain and my right hand for you, my Matilda, 
what may I not do? And know^ not, I knew not 'myself 
till this hour, which so sternly revealed it, my nature's 
full power. 

Matilda. And I too. I too am no more the mere 
infant at heart you have known me before. I have 
suffered since then. I have learned much in life. O 
take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, the heart I 
have learn'd as a woman to feel! For I — love you, my 
husband ! 

End of Scene 3. 



_52 — 

ACT III. 

Scene 4. — Same as Scene r. Time — Dawn. Liicile 
standing absorbed in her thoughts, with face toward 
east. 

Enters Duke. 

Duke. At last, then, — at last, and alone, — I and 
thou, Lucile de Nevers, have we met? Hush! I know 
not for me was the tryst. Never mind — it is mine; and 
whatever led hither those proud steps of thine, they 
remove not, until we have spoken. My hour is come; 
and it holds me and thee in its power, as the darkness 
holds both the horizons. 'Tiswell! The timidest maiden 
that e'er to the spell of her first lover's vows listened, 
hush'd with delight, when soft stars were brightly uphang- 
ing the night, never listened, I swear, more unquestion- 
ingly, than th}' fate hath compelled thee to listen to me! 

Lucile. Continue, I listen to hear. {^Facing the 
Duke. ) 

Duke. Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face? 
Is the sight so repugnant? Ha, well! canst thou trace one 
word of thy writing in this wicked scroll, with thine own 
name scrawl'd through it, defacing a soul? You 
shudder to look in my face. Do you feel no reproach 
when you look in j^our own heart? 

Lucile. No, Duke, in m}' conscience I do not 
deserve your rebuke. Not yours. 

Duke. No? Gentle justice! You first bid Life 
hope not and then to despair you say: "Act not!" 
( After a ■pause') 

Wrecked creatures we are! I and thou — one and all I 
Only able to injure each other and fall, soon or late, in that 
void which ourselves we prepare for tiie souls that we boast 
of! O heaven! and what has become of those instincts of 
Eden surviving the fall: That glorious faith in inherited 
things: That sense in the soul: Gone! all ^rone! and the 



— 53 — 

wail of the night wind sounds human, bewailing those 
once nightly visitants! Woman, woman, what hast thou 
done with my youth? Give again, give me back the 
young heart that I gave thee — in vain I 

LuciLE. Duke! 

Duke. Yes, yes, I was not always thus. What I 
once was I have not forgot. Woe to him in whose nature, 
once kindled, the torch of passion burns downward to 
blacken and scorch! but shame, shame and sorrow, O 
woman, to thee whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction 
in me! Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine! 
My soul by thy beauty was slain and 1 said to myself, "I 
am young yet: too young to have wholly survived my own 
portion among the great needs of man's life, or exhausted 
its joys; what is broken? One onl}- of youth's pleasant 
toys! Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, for one 
passion survived? No! the roses will blow as of yore, as 
of yore will the nightingales sing, not less sweetly for one 
blossom cancell'd from spring! Hast thou loved, O my 
heart? To thy love yet remains all the wideloving kindness 
of nature. The plains and the hills with each summer 
their verdure renew. Wouldst thou be as they are? Do 
thou then as they do, let the dead sleep in peace. Would 
the living divine where they slumber? Let only new 
flowers be the sign! Vain! all vain! — for when, 
laughing, the wine I would quaff I remember'd too 
well all it cost me to laugh. Through the revel 
it was but the old song I heard, through the crowd 
the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd, in the night- 
wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, in the 
ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven, I could trace 
nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, but the 
sound of old sobsand the track of old tears! It was with 
me the night long in dreaming or waking, it abided in 
loathing, when daylight was breaking, the burthen of the 
bitterness in me! Behold, all my days were become as a 



— 54 — 

tale that is told. And I said to my sight, "No good thing 
shall thou see. For the noonday is turned to darkness in 
me. In the house of oblivion m}? bed I have made." 
x\nd I said to the grave, "Lo, my father!" and said to 
the worm, "Lo, my sister!" The dust to the dust, and 
one end to the wicked shall be with the just! 

LuciLE. And say you, and deem you, that I vvreck'd 
3'our life? alas! Duke de Luvois, had I been 3'our wife by 
a fraud of the heart which could a ield you alone for the 
love in 3-our nature a lie in my own, should I not, in 
deceiving, have injured you worse? Yes, 1 then should 
have merited justly your curse, for I then should have 
wrong'd you ! 

Duke. Wrong'd! ah, is it so? You could never 
have loved me? 

LuciLE. Duke! Never? oh,' no! 

Duke. Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you 
led my love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour, all the 
pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power shut up in that 
cold face of yours ! Was this well? But enough! Not 
on you w^ould I vent the wild hell which has grown in my 
heart. Oh, that man! First and last he tramples in 
triumph my life! He lias cast his shadow 'twixt me and 
the sun — let it pass! M}'^ hate yet may find him! 

LuciLE. Alas! these words, at least, spare me the 
pain of reply. Enough, Duke de Luvois! farewell. I 
shall try to forget every word I have heard, every sight 
that has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night 
which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke, 
never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke than 
mine thus to wrong and atflict you have had! Adieu! 

Duke, Stay, Lucile, stay! I am mad, brutalized, 
blind with pain! I know not what I said. I mean it not. 
But forgive me ! I — have I so wrong'd you, Lucile? I 
— have I — forgive me, forgive me! 



— 55 — 

LuciLE. I feel onl}^ sad, very sad, to the soul; far, 
far too sad for resentment. 

Duke. Yet stand as 3'ou are one moment. I think, 
could I gaze thus awhile on 3^our face, the old innocent 
days would come back upon me, and this scorching heart 
free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart thus, 
Lucile; stay one moment. I know why you shrink, why 
you sudder; I read in your face what you think. Do not 
speak to me of it. And yet, if you will, wdiatever you 
say, my own lips shall be still. I lied. And the truth, 
now, could justify naught. There are battles, it may be, 
in which to have fought is more shameful than, simply, to 
fail. Yet, Lucile, had you help'd me to bear what you 
forced me to feel — 

Lucile. Could I help you? But what can I say 
that your life will respond to? 

Duke. My life? Nay, my life hath brought forth 
only evil, and there the wild wind hath planted the wild 
weed: yet ere you exclaim, "Fling the weed to the 
flames," think again why the iield is so barren. With all 
other men first love, though it perish from life, only goes 
like the primrose that falls to make way for tlie rose, for a 
man, at least most men, may love on through life: Love 
in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rife with 
labor, and, therefore, with love, for a man. If one love 
fails, another succeeds, and the plan of man's life includes 
love in all objects! But I? All such loves from my life, 
through its whole destiny, fate excluded. The love that 
I gave you, alas! was the sole love that life gave to me. 
Let that pass! It perish'd and all perish'd with it. 
Ambition? Wealth left nothing to add to my social con- 
dition. Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some 
great field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State? 
I to cringe to an upstart. The Camp? I to draw from 
its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois to defend 
usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art? But, alas! 



— 56 — 

I was fashion'd for action: my heart, wither'd thing 
though it be, I should hardly compress 'twixt the leaves 
of a treatise on Statics: life's stress needs scope, not con- 
traction ! what rests? to wear out at some dark northern 
court an existence, no doubt, in wretched and paltry 
intrigues for a cause as hopeless as is my own life! By 
the laws of a fate I can neither Control nor dispute, I am 
what I am ! 

LuciLE. We are our own fates. Our own deeds 
are our doomsmen. Man's life vvas made not for men's 
creeds but men's actions. And, Duke de Luvois, I might 
say that all life attests, that the will makes the way. 
Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth, or its 
claim the less strong, or its cause the less worth our 
upholding, because the white lily no more is as sacred as 
all that it bloom'd for of yore? yet be that as it may be; I 
cannot perchance judge this matter. I am but a woman, 
and France has for me simpler duties. Large hope, 
though, Eugene de Luvois, should be yours. There is 
purpose in pain, otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my 
soul that the great master hand which sweeps over the 
whole of this deep harp of life, if at moments it stretch to 
shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means to fetch its 
response the truest, most stringent, and smart, its pathos 
the purest, from out the wrung heart, whose faculties, 
flaccid it may be, if less sharply smitten, had fail'd to 
express just the one note the great final harmony needs. 
And what best proves there's life in a heart? — that it 
bleedis? Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain, 
grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain ! cease the 
sin with the sorrow I See morning begin ! pain must burn 
itself out if not fuell'd by sin. There is hope in 3^on hill- 
tops, and love in yon light. Let hate and despondency 
die with the night! 

Duke. Liicile, not for me that sun's light which 
reveals — not restores — the wild havoc of niirht. There 



— 57 — 

are some creatures born for the night, not the day. 
Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray, and 
the owl's moody mind in his own hollow tower dwells 
muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower. Light, 
be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyes 
grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize enough 
desolation. 

LuciLE. The pride that claims here on earth to 
itself God's dread office and right of punishing sin, is a 
sin in Heav^en's sight and against Heaven's service. 
Eugene de Luvois, leave the judgment to him who alone 
knows the law. Surely no man can be his own judge, 
least of all his own doomsman. Vulgar natures alone 
suffer vainly. Eugene, in life we have met once again 
and once more life parts us. Yon day-spring for me lifts 
the veil of a future in which it may be we shall meet 
nevermore. Grant, oh grant to, me yet the belief that it 
is not in vain we have met! I plead for the future. A 
new horoscope I would cast: will you read it? I plead 
for a hope: I plead for a m.emory ; 3'ours, yours alone, to 
restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own, be the 
memory mine. Oh, think not of me, but yourself! for I 
plead for your own destiny: I plead for your life, with 
its duties undone, with its claims unappeased and its 
trophies unwon; and in pleading for life'§ fair fulfilment, 
I plead for all that you miss and for all that you need. 

Duke. Lucile de Nevers! O soul to its sources 
departing away! pray for mine if one soul for another 
may pray. I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no 
power, one hope to my heart. But in this parting hour I 
name not my heart and I speak not to thine. Answer, 
soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine, does not soul 
owe to soul what to heart heart denies, hope, when hope 
is salvation? Behold, in yon skies, this wild night is 
passing away while I speak: lo, above us, the day-spring 
beginning to break! Something wakens within me and 



— 58 — 

warms to the beam. Is it hope that awakens? or do I but 
dream? I know not. It may be, perchance, the first 
spark of a new light within me to solace the dark unto 
which I return; or perchance it ma}' be the last spark of 
fires half extinguish'd in me. I know not. Thou goest 
thy way: I my own; for good or for evil, I know not. 
Alone this I know: We are parting. I wish'd to say 
more, but no matter! 'twill pass. All between us is o'er. 
Forget the wild words, of to-night. 'Twas the pain for 
long years hoarded up that rush'd from me again. I was 
unjust: forgive me. Spare now to reprove other words, 
other deeds. It was madness, not love, that you thwarted 
this night. What is done is now done. Death remains 
to avenge it or life to atone. I was madden'd, delirious! 
I saw you return to him — not to me ; and I felt my heart 
burn with a fierce thirst for vengeance — and thus — let it 
pass! Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, 
alas! Thou goest thy way and I mine. I suppose 'tis 
to meet nevermore. Is it not so? Who knows or who 
heeds where the exhile from Paradise flies? or what altars 
of his in the desert may rise? Is it not so, Lucile? Well, 
well! Thus then we part once again, soul from soul, as 
before heart from heart. 

Bells chime the hour. 
Lucile. Our two paths must part us, Eugene; for 
my own seems no more through that world in which 
henceforth alone you must work out (as now I believe 
that you will) the hope which you speak of. That work 
I shall still (if I live) watch and welcome, and bless far 
away. Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, if 
I say that the great moral combat between human life and 
each human soul must be single. The strife none can 
share, though by all its results may be known. When the 
soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone. I say not, 
indeed, we shall meet nevermore, for I know not. But 
meet, as we have met of yore, I know that we cannot. 



— 59 — 

Perchance we may meet by the death-bed, the tomb, in 
the crowd in the street, or in sohtude even, but never 
again shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, 
Eugene. For we know not the way we are going, nor 
yet where our two ways may meet, or may cross. Life 
hath set no landmarks before us. But this, this alone, I 
will promise: whatever your path, or my own, if, for 
once in the conflict before you, it chance that the 
dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lance lost or 
shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war, you falter 
and hesitate, if from afar I, still watching (unknown to 
yourself, it may be) o'er the conflict to which I conjure 
you, should see that my presence could rescue, support 
you, or guide, in the hour of that need I shall be at your 
side, to warn, if you will, or incite, or control; and again, 
once again, Eugene, we shall meet, soul to soul! 
Curtain. 
End of i\cT III. 



— 60 — 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. — Tzvcnty-five years clause betzueen Acts j; and ^. 
Time — A night in JVovemher, year i8s4- Place — 
Encampment of the allied armies of England and 
France on the fields at Inker man. The tent of a British 
soldier. John Vargrave laying sick and zvounded on a 
cot. Enter Liicile in the garb of a Sister of Charity. 
Approaches the cot. 

John, (fust axvakened from a delirum. ) Sa}' what 
art thou, blessed dream of a saintly and ministering spirit. 

LuciLE. The Soeur Seraphine, a poor Sister of 
Charity. Shun to inquire aught further, young soldier. 
The son of thy sire, for the sake of that sire, I reclaim 
from the grave. Thou didst not shun death : shun not 
life: 'Tis more brave to live than to die. 

John. If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 
sweet minister, pour out 3'et further the healing of that 
balmy voice ; if it may be, revealing thy mission of mercv ; 
whence art thou? 

LuciLE. O son of Matilda and Alfred, it matters 
not! One who is not of the living nor yet of the dead: to 
thee, and to others, alive yet — so long as there liveth the 
poor gift in me of this ministration; to them, and to thee, 
dead in all things beside., A French nun, whose vocation 
is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. Wherever 
man suffers, or woman may soothe, there her land! there 
her kindred! Yet more than another is thy life dear to 
me. For th}' father, thy mother I know them — I know 
them. 

John. Oh, can it be you know my dearest dear 
mother! my father! You know, you know them? Do 
they know I am thus? 



— 61 — 

LuciLE. Hush ! 

John. My poor mother — my father! Has the worst 
reach'd them ! 

LuciLE. No, no! They know you are living; they 
know that meanwhile I am watching beside you. Young 
soldier, weep not. Day after day I have nursed 30U. I 
have heal'd these wounds of the body. Wh}^ hast thou 
conceal'd, young soldier, that yet open wound in the 
heart? Wilt thou trust no hand near it? 

John. What? lies my heart, then, so bare? 

LuciLE. Nay, do you think that these eyes are with 
sorrow, young man, so all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan 
her features yet know them not? Oh, was it spoken, 
"Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the 
broken!" Of the body alone? Is our mission, then, 
done, when we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the 
bruised bone? Nay, is not the mission of mercy two- 
fold? Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers that 
we hold to fulfill it, of Heaven? For Heaven doth still 
to us sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill won from 
long intercourse with affliction, and art, help'd of Heaven, 
to bind up the broken of heart. Trust to me! trust to 
me! I am not so dead in remembrance to all I have 
died, too, in this world, but what I recall enough of its 
sorrow, enough of its trial, to grieve for both — save from 
both haply! The dial receives many shades and each 
points to the sun ; the shadows are many, the sunlight is 
one. Life's sorrows still fluctuate ; God's love does not. 
And His love is unchanged, when it changes our lot. 
Looking up to this light, which is common to all, and 
down to these shadows, on each side, that fall in time's 
silent circle, so various for each, is it nothing to know 
that they never can reach so far, but what light lies 
beyond them forever? Trust to me! O if this hour I 
endeavor to trace the shade creeping across the young 
life which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd through 



^62 — 

its strife with the shadow of death, 'tis with this faith 
alone that, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun. 
Trust to me I 

John. The stor}- is old. A few years ago, a young 
girl — the niece of a French noble, leaving an old Norman 
pile by the wild northern seas, came to dwell with a lady 
allied to her race in the Faubourg Saint Germain. From 
childhood an orphan, an uncle had filled the place of 
father and mother; she had grown at his side, and under 
his roof-tree, and in his regard, from childhood to girl- 
hood. She seem'd the sole human creature that lived in 
the heart of that stern, rigid man. She was the child of 
a brother whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother 
had placed on his bosom, 'Twas rumored — right or wrong 
— that, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long, to which, 
as a stranger, its lord now return'd, in years yet recall'd, 
through loud midnights had burn'd the light of wild 
orgies. Be that false or true, slow and sad was the foot- 
step which now wander'd through those desolate cham- 
bers; and calm and severe was the life of their inmate. 
Men now saw appear every morn at the mass that firm 
sorrowful face, which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron 
case, tears harden'd to crystal; yet, harsh if he were, his 
severity seem'd to be trebly severe in the rule of his own 
rigid life, which, at least, was benignant to others. The 
poor parish priest, who lived on his largess, praised his 
piety; the peasant was fed, and the chapel was raised, 
andthecottage wasbuilt, by his liberal hand ; yet he seem'd 
in the midst of hisgood deeds to stand alone, and unloved, 
an unlovable man. That child alone did not fear him, nor 
shrink from him; smiled to his frown, and dispell'd it. 
The sweet sportive elf seem'd the type of some joy lost, 
and miss'd, in himself. Ever welcome he suffer'd her 
glad face to glide in on hours when to others his door was 
denied; and many a time with a mute, moody look he 
would watch her at prattle and play, like a brook whose 



— 63 — 

babble disturbs not the quietest spot, but soothes us 
because we need answer it not. But few years had pass'd 
o'er tliat childhood before a change came among them. 
A letter, which bore sudden consequence with it, one 
morning, was placed in the hands of the lord of the 
chateau. He paced to and fro in his chamber a whole 
night alone, after reading that letter; at dawn he was 
gone. Weeks pass'd. When he came back again he 
return'd with a tall, ancient dame, from whose lips the 
child learn'd that the}' were of the same race and name; 
with a face sad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the 
race he confided the orphan, and left them alone in the 
old lonely house In a few days 'twas known, to the 
angry surprise of half Paris, that one of the chiefs of that 
party which, still clinging on to the banner that bears the 
white lilies of France, will fight 'neath no other, nor yet 
for the chance of restoring their own, had renounced the 
watchword and the creed of his youth in unsheathing his 
sword, for a fatherland father'd no more (such is fate!) 
by legitimate parents. And meanwhile, elate and in no 
wise disturbed by what Paris might say. the new soldier 
thus wrote to a triend far away — "To the life of inaction 
farewell! After all, creeds the oldest may crumble, and 
dynasties fall, but the sole grand legitimacy will endure, 
in whatever makes death noble, life strong and pure. 
Freedom ! action — the desert to breathe in — the lance of 
the Arab to follow! I go! Viva la France!" Few and rare 
were the meetings henceforth, as years fled, 'twixt the 
child and the soldier. The two women led lone lives in 
the lone house; meanwhile the child grew into girlhood; 
and, like a sunbeam, sliding through her green, quiet 
years, changed by gentle degrees to the loveliest vision of 
youth a youth sees in his loveliest fancies; as pure as a 
pearl, and as perfect; a noble and innocent girl, with 
eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the light of her 
lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright! Then her guar- 



— 64 — 

dian wrote to the dame — "Let Constance go with you to 
Paris. I trust that in France I may be ere the close of 
the year. I confide m}? life's treasure to you. Let her 
see the world which we live in." To Paris thencame Con- 
stance to abide with that old stately dame in that old 
stately Faubourg. 'Twas there our acquaintance began; 
there it closed; that old miracle, love-at- first-sight, needs 
no explanations ; the heart reads aright its destiny sometimes. 
I was graciously bidden an habitual guest to that house by 
the dame. The world-honor'd name of my father (in me 
not dishonor'd) was fair title to favor; my love, the old 
lady observed, v^ as returned b}^ Constance, and as the 
child's uncle prolonged his absence from France, she wrote 
to him a lengthen'd and moving narration of my love for 
her, and her love for me; then she awaited with pleasure 
her uncle's approval of all she had stated. At length 
from that uncle came an answer brief, stern; such as 
stunn'd and astonish'd the dame: "Let Constance leave 
Paris with you on the day you receive this. Until 
my return she may stay at her convent awhile. If 
my niece wishes ever to behold me again, understand, she 
will never wed that man. You have broken faith with 
me. Farewell!" I need not tell you of the tears of Con- 
stance, nor of my grief; the dream we had laid out our 
lives in was over. I bravely strove to look in the face of 
a life where invisible hands seemed to trace o'er the 
threshold these words : "Hope no more ! " Had my love been 
unreturned my heart would have spurn 'd that weakness 
which suffers a woman to lie at the roots of man's life, 
like a canker, and dry and wither the sap of life's pur- 
pose: but there lay the bitterer part of the pain! Could I 
dare forget I was loved? that I grieved not alone? News 
reach'd me through a comrade, who brought me a letter to 
read from the dame who had care of Constance, that 
Constance, although she never betrayed a murmur of 
what she suffered, grew paler and seemed visibly drooping 



— 65 — 

and dying away. Then I went into the army. The rest 
you know. 

LuciLE. And the name of the uncle? 

John. The Duke De Luvois! {sinking back on 
cuHcli as if in a faint). 

LuciLE. {Asif speaJcino- to herself). Eugene, hath 
the struggle been so long and yet in vain? Have I done 
all I can? No! no! I must not falter now; I will meet 
him face to face, ay, soul to soul. {Kneels as in frayer). 

End of Scene 1. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 2. — TJie tent of i lie Duke de Luvois, now a general 
in command of t/ie FrencJi forces at I nicer man. After- 
noon of next day. TJic duke, xvitJi one of his aides, is 
exainining some flans for the army hospital service. 

Aide. Has nion General heard of the solicitous 
cares of the Sisters of Charity? One is known through 
the camp as a seraph of grace. She is always active, but 
lent, where suffering is seen. How do they call her— 



SI 

soeur — soeur 



? 



Duke. Ay, truly of her I have heard much, and we 
owe her already the lives of not a few of our bravest. 
You mean, ay, how do they call her the Soeur Seraphine? 
I rarely forget names once heard. 

Aide. Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant. 

Duke. On my word, I have much wish'd to see her. 
I fancy I trace, in some facts traced to her, something 
more than the grace of an angel; I mean an acute human 
mind, ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, and, if 
possible, let her come to me. We shall, I think, aid each 
other. 



— 6Q — 

Aide. Out, mon General. I believe she has 
latel}' obtained the permission to tend some sick man in 
the Second Division of our Ally: they say a relation. 

Duke. A}^ so? A relation. 

Aide. 'Tis said so. 

Duke. The name do you know? 

Aide. Non, mon General. 

A n orderly enters and salutes. 

Orderly. A Sister of Charity craves, in a case of 
urgent and serious importance, the grace of brief private 
speech with the general. Will the general speak with 
her? 

Duke. Bid her declare her mission. 

Orderly. She will not. She craves to be seen and 
be heard. 

Duke. Well, her name, then? 

Orderly. The Soeur Seraphine. 

Duke. Clear the tent. She ma}^ enter. 

[Exit all but Duke. 
Enter Liicile. 

Duke. Sit, hoi}' sister! Your worth is well known 
to the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to m}^ own. I have 
much wish'd to see you. I owe you some thanks; in the 
name of all those you have saved I record them. Sit! 
Now, then, your mission? 

Duke {observing- her more closely, mutters') : Strange ! 
Strange any face should so strongl}' remind me of her! 
Fool! again the delirium, the dream! does it stir? does it 
move as of old? Psha! Sit, Sister! I wait your answer. 
My time halts but hurriedly. State the cause why you 
seek me. 

LuciLE. Eugene de Luvois, the cause which recalls 
me again to your side, is a promise that rests unfulfiU'd, I 
come to fulfil it. 

Duke. Lucile? Thus we meet then? — here! — thus? 



— 67 — 

LuciLE. Soul to soul, ay Eugene, as I pledged you 
my word that we should meet again. Dead, — long dead! 
all that lived in our lives — thine and mme — saving that 
which ev'n life's self survives, the soul! 'Tis my soul 
seeks thine own. What may reach from my life to thy 
life (so wide each from each!) save the soul to the soul? 
To thy soul I would speak. May I do so? 

Duke. Speak.! 

LuciLE. I come from the solemn bedside of a man 
that is d3ang, while we speak, a life is in jeopardy. 

Duke. Quick then! you seek aid or medicine, or 
what? 

LuciLE. 'Tis not needed, medicine? yes for the 
mind! 'Tis a heart that needs aid! you, Eugene de 
Luvois, you (and you onl}') can save the life of this man. 
Will you save it? 

Duke. What man? How? — where? — can you ask? 

LuciLE. The young son of Matilda and'Alfred. 

Duke. The son of Alfred Vargrave? 

LuciLE. Yes. I found him half dead in his tent. 
I sought to nurse him back to life. I found my efforts 
would fail. I was beaten by a love that was stronger than 
life. I won from him his story of his love for your niece, 
Constance, and the news that Constance's heart like his 
was breaking. 

Duke. Hold — forbear 'tis to him, then, that I owe 
these last greetings — for him you are here — for his sake 
you seek me — for him it is clear, you have deign'd at 
at the last to bethink you again of this long forgotten 
existence ! 

LuciLE. Eugene! 

DuKE. Ha! fool that I was! and just now, while 
you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to grow almost 
boyish again, almost sure of one friend! yet this was the 
meaning of all — this the end! Be it so! There's a sort 
of slow justice in this — that the word that man's finger 



hath writ in fire on my heart, I return him at last. Let 
him learn that word — never! 

LuciLE. Ah, still to the past, must the present be 
vassal? In the hour we last parted I urged you to put 
forth the power which I felt to be yours, in the conquest 
of life. Yours, the promise to strive: mine — to watch 
o'er the strife. I foresaw 3^ou would conquer; you have 
conquer'd much, much indeed, that is noble! I hail it as 
such, and am here to record and applaud it.- I saw not the 
less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, one peril — one point 
where I feared you would fail to subdue that worst foe 
which a man can assail — himself: and I promised that, if 
I should see my champion once falter, that moment would 
bring me again to his side. That moment is come ! for 
that peril was pride, and you falter. I plead for yourself, 
for that gentle child without father or mother, to whom 
you are both. I plead, soldier of France, for your own 
nobler nature — and plead for Constance! 

Duke. Constance! — A}', she enter'd my lone life 
when its sun was long set; and hung over its night her 
own starry childhood. I have but that light, in the midst 
of much darkness! Who names me but she with titles of 
love? and what rests there for me in the silence of age 
save the voice of that child? The child of my own better 
life, undefiled! My creature, carved out of my heart of 
hearts ! 

LuciLE. Are you able to lay your hand, as a knight, 
on your heart, as a man, and swear that, whatever may 
happen, you can feel assured for the life you thus cherish? 

Duke. How so? 

LuciLE. If the boy should die thus? 

Duke. Yes, I know what 3'our look would impl}- — 
this sleek stranger forsooth ! Because on his cheek was 
the red rose of youth the heart of my niece must break 
for it! 



— 69 



LuciLE. Nay, but hear me 3'et further ^ These 
young things lie safe in our heart just so lona as their 
wings are in growing; and when these are strong thev 
break it, and farewell! the bird flies! The sun is 
descending, hfe fleets while we talk thus? oh, yet let this 
day upon one final victory set, and complete a life's 
conquest! 

Duke. Understand! If Constance wed the son of 
this man, by whose hand my heart hath been robb'd 
she s lost to my life ! Can her home be my home? Can 
I claim m the wife of that man's son the child of myacxe? 
At her side shall he stand on my hearth? Shall I ;ue'' to 
the bnde of a Vargrave? 

_ LuciLE. O think not of the son of the man whom 
unjustly you hate; only think o.f this young human 
creature that cri.s from the brink of a grave to vour 
mercy! Recall your own words how with love maV be 
wreck'd a whole life! then, Eugene, look w^ith me (still 
those words in our ears!) once again at this young 
soldier sinking from life here-dragg'd down by the 
weight of the love in his heart: no renown, no fame 
comforts him ! nations shout not above the lone grave 
down to which he is bearing the love which life has 
rejected ! Will you stand apart? You with such a love's 
memory deep in your heart! You the hero, whose life 
hath perchance been led on through the deeds it hath 
wrought to the fame it hath won, by recalling the visions 
and dreams of a youth, such as lies at your door now • 
who have but, in truth, to stretch forth a hand, 'o speak 
only one word, and by that word you rescue a life! 

Duke. No !— Constance wed a Vargrave !— I cannot 
consent! 

LuciLE (r/s/ng-). Eugene de Luvois, but for you I 
might have been now— not this wandering nun but' a 
mother, a wife-pleading, not for the son of another, but 
blessing some child of my own, his-the man's that I 



— 70 — 

once loved! — Hush! that which is done I regret not. I 
breathe no reproaches. That's best which God sends. 
'Twas his will; it is mine. This onl}' I say: you have 
not the right to say — "I am the wrong'd." 

Duke. Have I wrong'd thee? — wronged thee! 
Lucile, ah, Lucile ! 

LuciLE. Nay, not me, but man! The lone nun 
standing here has no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from 
the sphere of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. 
But she, the dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is in 
me, demands from her grave reparation to man, repara- 
tion to God. Heed, O heed, while you can, this voice 
from the grave ! 

Duke. Hush! I obey the Sceur Seraphine. There, 
Lucile! let this pay every debt that is due to that grave. 
Now lead on, I follow vou, Soeur Seraphine ! — to the son 
of Lord Alfred Vargrave. Let the old tree go down to 
the earth — the old tree with the worm at its heart! Lay 
the axe to the root! Who will miss the old stump, so we 
save the young shoot? A Vargrave! — this pays all — 
Lead on! — I follow forth — forth where you lead. 

Curtain. 
End of Scene 2. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 3. — Same as Scene i. yohn Va?-grave lying on 
cot. E)iter Duke and Lucile, Lucile leading. 

Duke {aside, as he approaches the bed). The smooth 
brow, the fair Vargrave face and those eyes — all the 
mother's. {To the boy) Do not rise; you suffer, young 
man. (Aside) And so young. 

John. So young? Yes, and 3^et I have tangled 
among the fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine 



— 71 — 

other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine 
the vext skein — but it will not. Yes, Duke, 3/oung — so 
young! And I knew you not? yet I have done you a 
wrong irreparable — late, too late to repair. If I knew any 
means — but I know none — I swear, if this broken fraction 
of time could extend into infinite lives of atonement, no 
end would seem too remote for ni}^ grief. Not too late, 
however, for me to entreat: is it too late for you to for- 
give? 

Duke. You wrong — my forgiveness — explain. 

John. Could I live! Such a very f w hours left to 
life, yet I shrink, I falter. Yes, Duke, your forgiveness 
I think, should free my soul hence. I know not what 
merciful mystery now brings 3'Ou here, but death is at 
hand, and the few words I have 3'et to speak, I must speak 
them at once. Duke I swear, as I lie here (Death's angel 
too close not to hear) that I meant not this wrong to you, 
Duke de Luvois, I loved your niece — loved? why, I love 
her! I saw, and, seeing, how could I but love her? I 
seem'd born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I 
dream'd, had any one hinted: Beware of the curse which 
is coming! There was not a voice raised to tell, not a 
hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell, and then — 
then the blow fell on both ! This is wh}' I implore you to 
pardon that great injury wrought on her, and, through 
her, wrought on you, Heaven knows, how unwittingly! 

Duke. Ah ! and, young soldier, suppose that I came 
here to seek, not grant, pardon? — 

John. Of whom? 

Duke. Of yourself? 

John. Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb no 
boyish resentment; not one lonely thought tiiat honors 
you not. 'Tis for me to forgive. I btlieve in Constance, 
Duke, as she does in you! In this great world around 
us, wherever we turn, some grief irremediable we discern; 



— 72 — 

and yet — there sits God, calm in Heaven above? Do we 
trust one whit less in his justice or love? I judge not. 

Duke. Enough! Hear at last, then, the truth: 
Your father and I — foes we were in our youth. It matters 
not why. Yet thus much understand: The hope of my 
youth was sign'd out by his hand. I was not of those 
whom the buffets of fate tame and teach ; and my heart 
buried slain love in hate. But I seek now in the son of 
my youth's enemy the friend of my age. Let the present 
release here acquit the past? In the name of my niece, 
whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give. Are you 
great enough, boy, to forgive me,— and live? Yes, boy? 
thank this guardian angel, I — you, we owe all to her. 
Crown her work. Live ! be true to your life's fair promise 
and live for her sake. 

John. Yes, Duke, I will live, I must live — live to 
make my whole life the answer you claim, for joy does 
not kill {falls back on cot). 

Liicile bends over and ministers to him and then joins the 
Duke, who has stepped without the tent. Night is clos- 
ing down. Other encampments near. In distance 
Black Sea with English war vessels. 

Duke. Oh, Soeur Seraphine, are you happy. 

LuciLE. What is happier than to have hoped not 
in vain. And you? 

Duke. Yes. 

LuciLE. You do not repent? 

Duke. No. 
After a pause in zuJiich lights on ship are extinguished. 

LuciLE. Mark yon ship far away, asleep on the 
wave, in the last light of day, with all its hush'd thunders 
shut up! Would you know a thought which came to me 
a few days ago, whilst watching those ships? — When the 
great ship of life surviving, though shatter'd, the tumult 
and strife of earth's angry element, — masts broken short, 
decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten — drives safe into port; 



— 73 — 

when the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand, stretches 
over the waters a welcomintr hand; when, heeding no 
longer the sea's baffled roar, the mariner turns to his rest 
evermore; what will then be the answer the helmsman 
must give? Will it be — 'Lo our log-book! Thus once 
did we live in the zones ot" the South; thus we traversed 
the seas ot the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesperides; 
thence follow'd the west wind ; here, eastward we turn'd; 
the stars fail'd us there ; just here land we discern'd on 
our lee; there the storm overtook us at last; that day 
went the bowsprit, the next day the mast; there the mer- 
man came round us, and there we saw bask a siren? 
The captain of port will he ask any one of such questions? 
I cannot think so! but — 'What is the last bill of health 
you can show? Not — How fared the soul through the 
trials she pass'd?. But — What is the state of that soul at 
the last? 

Duke. May it be so. There the sun drops, behold! 

LuciLE. Nunc diniitiis. O God of the living! 
whilst yet 'mid the dead and the dying we stand here 
alive, and thy days returning, admit space for prayer and 
for praise, in both these confirm us! The helmsman, 
Eugene, needs the compass to steer by; pray always ; 
again we two part, each to work out Heaven's will; you, 
I trust, in the world's ample witness; and I, as I must, 
in secret and silence; you, love, fame, await; me, sorrow 
and sickness; we meet at one gate when all's over; the 
ways they are many and wide, and seldom are two ways 
the same; side by side may we stand at the same little 
door when all's done! the waj's they are many, the end 
it is one. He that knocketh shall enter; who asks shall 
obtain; and who seek'eth, he findeth. Remember, 
Eugene ! ( Turns to leave) . 

Duke. Whither? whither? 

LuciLE. See yonder vast host, with its manifold 
heart made as one man's by one hope! the hope 'tis your 



— 74 — 

part to aid towards achievement, to save from reverse; 
you go to your work, I go to mine; 'tis mission of genius 
to watch and to wait, to renew, to redeem, and to regen- 
erate; 'tis the mission of woman to give birth to the 
mercy of Heaven descending on earth; the mission of 
woman, permitted to bruise the head of the serpent, and 
sweetly infuse, through the sorrow and sin of earth's 
register'd curse, the blessing which mitigates all; born to 
nurse, and to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal 
the sick world that leans on her. Our life is -but love in 
act, and the dear God above, who knows what His 
creatures have need of for life, and whose love includes 
all loves, through much patient strife has led my soul into 
peace. Love, though love may be given in vain, is yet 
lovely, but as life's troubled dream wears away, love sighs 
into rest like a stream that breaks its heart over wild 
rocks toward the shore of the great sea, which hushes it 
up evermore with its little wild wailing; no stream from 
its source flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, 
but what some land is gladden'd. No star ever rose and 
set, without influence somewhere. Who knows what 
earth needs from earth's lowest creature? No life can be 
pure in its purpose and strong in its strife and all life not 
be purer and stronger thereby. The spirits of just men, 
made perfect on high, the army of martyrs who stand by 
the throne and gaze into the face that makes glorious 
their own, know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest 
sorrow, honest work for the day, honest hope for the 
morrow, are these worth nothing more than the hand they 
make weary, the heart they have sadden'd, the life they 
leave dreary? The sevenfold heavens to the voice of the 
spirit echo: he that o'ercometh shall all things inherit. 

Liicile moves in direct ion of encampment, the Duke stands 
luatching her, and the night closes around them. 

Curtain. 



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